


Beyond Tundras Bitter and Dragonfire's Brand

by BlushingNewb



Series: The Adventures of Sherlock of High Rock, Consulting Discerner [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Racism, absolutely no one takes an arrow to the knee, gratuitous use of footnotes, have tried to keep those unfamiliar with Elder Scrolls in mind, merges journal entries with third person narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpts from "The Adventures of Sherlock of High Rock," as recorded by Ioxannes Watson, also called John. </p>
<p>With supplemental material from "The Philosophy of Discernment," which Sherlock would rather have had titled "The Unenlightened’s Guide to the Philosophy of Discernment," but I cautioned him that this might be insulting toward the reader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction and A Strange Meeting

**Forward**

by Archivist Jo’Bhishnubi, 5E 93

This volume was rediscovered in the library of Arcane University as it underwent its most recent remodeling post the Great Imperial Reunification.

Tales of the last Dragonborn and his chronicler Ioxannes (John) Watson have long since become a part of Tamrielic history, but this particular book is one of a scant number of copies describing the early days of the pair’s travels in Skyrim. A goodly amount of this text describes the first encounter of Ioxannes Watson with Sherlock of High Rock and chronicles the time they spent in Windhelm prior to the first reappearance of the dragons.

While the exploits of Sherlock are at the forefront of Watson’s narration, it soon becomes apparent that these two men were devoted to each other and inseparable; theirs was a companionship that beastfolk, men and mer ***** alike still find rare - and enviable.

 

* * *

 

**The Adventures of Sherlock of High Rock, Consulting Discerner**

recorded by Ioxannes Watson, also called John

_With supplemental material from The Philosophy of Discernment, which Sherlock would rather have had titled The Unenlightened’s Guide to the Philosophy of Discernment, but I cautioned him that this might be rather insulting toward the reader. _

**_A Strange Meeting_ **

_In the month of the Evening Star in the year 4E 201, I returned home to Riften for the first time in nearly twenty years, having been invalided from my regiment of the Imperial Army in Leyawiin._ _There, I made the acquaintance of the most unusual and wisest individual I have ever known._

 

* * *

"Who in Oblivion are you?"

A deep voice, echoing up from beneath the street, was filled with annoyance and impatience and John started in surprise, forgetting all about his discomfort. He had just fallen face forward onto the sewer grate, his detested cane slipping away from him into the darkness. John squinted further downwards past the bars, and yes, there was the distant flicker of a Candlelight spell.

"I could well ask you the same thing, my friend. What are you doing down there?"

"If you must know...research."

"Pretty dangerous place for 'research,' those sewers. You do know that the Thieves' Guild and other ruffians make it their home, yes?" asked John. No one could be _that_ ignorant, he thought.

"Oh, boring. They're no bother to me, but this - hmgfh - this pit with spikes was...rather unexpected." The voice took on the tone of a pout and John smiled to himself.

"I could offer you a hand up," he offered. "I happen to have some rope."

"Well, that would be _nice_ ," the unknown man spat out, "if not for the patently obvious fact that the grate bars are in the way, as any less stupid person would notice."

John chuckled to himself. This man was even ruder and surlier than he was, and that was saying something.

"You just let me worry about the bars," he replied.

John cast his own weak Candlelight spell - though Alteration was not his area, a soldier still needed to have some of the basics - and he caught sight of a brick column two meters from the grate. He hobbled over toward it, ignoring the twinges from his leg, and wrapped his rope around it. There was plenty of length remaining and he trailed the end the rope down into the grate. He beckoned his Candlelight closer and refreshed it, eyeballing the bars in the center of the street once more.

Like most things in Riften, the bars were well-worn and rusting, and John automatically reached for the sword hilt at his side. It had been months since he had cause to use it; once he had been able to wield it with pride, but that had all changed.

Shaking his head, he let out a deep sigh. The mysterious person underneath the street might be in real danger, and in spite of his arrogant words, John sensed a note of desperation in his speech. John had known many men before who had cloaked their wounds with such bluster, and his resolve strengthened. Useless though his leg might be, his sword arm, blessedly spared, still retained much of its strength.

"Take cover!" he yelled down into the depths.

The iron bars yielded to his hacking blows and tumbled downward with a series of clangs. There were two jutting bars left, and John gave them a sharp jab with his sword hilt. Peering downward, John shouted,

"You alright? Still there?"

John could just make out some movements in the shadows and the voice replied,

"Yes. I've got the rope - give me a few moments."

John heard the sound of another Candlelight being fired off, and then saw a tug on the rope. There was nothing he could do now but wait for the man to climb up the ten meters from the sewer below. He watched the movement of the rope and verified that it was tightly secured around the pillar, and jerked his head back to the open hole as he heard a scratching sound. The man had made it up quite high and was only about five meters away. John felt his spirits rise and began to encourage him,

"That's it, man, you're almost there," he coaxed. The other man hissed in sharply as he scrabbled upwards, and John saw irregularities covering both his bare forearms and neck. There were bubbling sores all over him, signs of a sprung poison trap, and, losing patience, John grabbed the man from underneath his arms and hauled him up the rest of the way. The stranger's Candlelight bobbed in the air, and John finally saw him. They stared at one another.

Within seconds, John was able to determine that he was a young Breton mage, unusually tall for his race and dark haired. His blue-green eyes shone brightly, even in the dim light, but his face was smudged with soot and his lips were twisted into a grimace of pain. He was cloaked in what were once luxurious black robes, now torn and likely damaged beyond repair. They still shone with a subtle purple, and John futilely racked his brains trying to determine what spell was associated with the color. But John dismissed his speculations in favour of gathering his magic and casting one of his strongest healing spells over the man.

The young Mage breathed in deeply as John's orange glow settled gently on his skin, and then he chuckled in relief.

"Thanks," he said grinning. "How improbable but fortunate for me that I should meet you. Leyawiin or Colovian Highlands?" he asked, and John could have sworn that the man winked at him. **ª**

"How - how could you possibly know that?"

The mage ignored him and beckoned lightly with an arm, causing several planks to tumble over from a nearby pile of debris. He had learned Alteration magic to at least an adept level, then. As John gawked, the mage assembled them into a crude barricade around the hole. The stranger hastily shouldered his pack and stalked away on long legs; John staggered after him, sheathing his sword.

"No, really, how did you know that?" John asked, tugging on the man's arm. They were now standing underneath a sputtering torch hung outside some dilapidated building (of which there were many in Riften). The striking young man crooked his head to the right and lifted his chin.

"You've still got a deep tan and highlights from the sun - you'd never see that in Skyrim. Your Elven sword hilt has some light bronzing that you missed, a sign that you've been close to the sea. You favor your right shoulder, pierced by an arrow rather than a sword, but you’re a careful man, you wouldn’t have been caught off guard in the wild. So, battle skirmish behind walls, but an arrow got you from behind, probably in the middle of a spell; that’s because you're a battle healer, but not a typical spellsword or a knight. You've trained in medium armor, one-handed combat, archery with a crossbow, judging by the wear in your jerkin, and most especially Restoration magic. By the way, your limp is all in your mind, that’s why the Temple priests couldn’t help you.”

John stared at him with his jaw ajar and he blinked repeatedly at the man.

“That...that’s brilliant!” he finally stuttered.

“Really? You really think so? That’s not what most people say,” the mage looked down and a corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

“Er, what do they usually say?” John asked.

“ ‘Be off, you fetcher!’” the man quoted. **¹** John met his eyes and saw an expression of merriment and mischief on the mage’s face. He found himself grinning back and the young man held out his hand.

“Sherlock of High Rock,” he said with amiability.

“Ioxannes Watson of…”

“Riften, obviously, it's a melting pot,” Sherlock interrupted. “Imperial father, Nord mother - that's why you're shorter and slighter than most others in Skyrim.” As soon as he said it, Sherlock blanched in consternation; John suspected he hadn't meant to let that slip and the hand Sherlock had extended to him drooped.

John took it and shook firmly.

"Just John to my friends and the gods know there haven't been many of those lately. Not many folk interested in a run-down old soldier."

* * *

As they walked down the alleyway, the only warning of imminent danger came from a ghastly stench of ancient death. John was no stranger to the smell of death, but this - it reeked of seven-day old battlefields and it was nearly overpowering.

The vampire's winged form leapt out at Sherlock. In shock, he startled backward, just missing the creature's outstretched claws. He fired off a weak Turn Lesser Undead and the leathery creature recoiled. **°** It was only a momentary respite, though, and while John could see that the vampire was starved and withered, it was in deadly earnest and started again for Sherlock.

Without thinking, John pulled out his dagger, ducked around Sherlock, threw a hasty heal spell in his direction and plunged his weapon into the vampire's chest. It exploded with a shower of blue sparks and collapsed into a pile of dust. John let his knife fall to the ground and stood breathing heavily.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked, pressing his hand to John's shoulder. John didn't respond but stared down fixedly at the powdery remains. Surely the vampires weren't returning to Skyrim after all these years?

"Alright, are you alright?" Sherlock asked insistently, running his hands over John's arms and jerkin.

John suddenly tightened his own fingers over the pale, recently healed flesh of Sherlock's hand.

"Fine, I'm fine. You?" he asked, placing two hands at the man's chin, tilting it upward to check for puncture wounds. Sherlock's skin was soft and smooth to the touch, and John was extremely relieved to see that his graceful neck remained unmarred.

"I'm unharmed," Sherlock replied, breaking gently away from John's touch. He blinked rapidly for a space of about ten seconds before crouching down with alacrity.

"Hey- Sherlo- what are you doing?" John cried, alarmed, as Sherlock began rooting around the still smoking remains of the vampire.

Sherlock grinned up at him and triumphantly held aloft a small, stoppered vial.

"Vampire dust," Sherlock explained. "You have to collect it within five minutes of death or it totally evaporates - I've charmed my bottle to hold it. Nice dagger, by the way. Silver, Ayleid forged. **˭** Family heirloom?"

John inhaled sharply, flummoxed. But then amusement bubbled up from inside him and he snickered. Sherlock jerked back, startled.

"That...is the maddest thing I've ever done," John gasped. Sherlock met his eye and handed back the dagger, hilt first.

"And you invaded Leyawiin," he said, with more than a glint of mischief in his eye before finally letting loose with a rich, low laugh.

John giggled back at him and clapped a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're going to be nothing but trouble from here on out, are you, Sherlock?"

The mage ceased laughing but his full lips still held the ghost of a smile.

"Problem?" he asked, arching a single eyebrow.

"Gods, no," answered John. “That was excellent.” He felt more alive than he had in many moons, and desperately, he realized that he didn’t want to let this man go. With a mad hope, he asked in his boldest voice,

“Looking for a companion - even a broken one like me?”

“It might be useful to have a battle healer around. Someone who doesn’t flinch from violent sights,” Sherlock smiled, looking down at his feet. “And broken isn’t the word I’d use to describe you.”

It was then that John noticed that he was standing straight up, both feet on the ground, with absolutely no pain. Sherlock let out another chuckle and reached up to his shoulder to cover John’s hand with his own, with a warm palm that still seemed to tingle with unspent magic.

 

* * *

* * *

**_footnotes_ **

**_*_** The major divisions of humanoids are as follows: beastfolk are Khajiit and Argonians. Khajiit have many feline characteristics and in several versions of Elder Scrolls games, can see in the dark and fight with their claws. Argonians have some features in common with reptiles and are often able to breathe underwater - their scaly skin is very tough and so they recover quickly from injuries. Men are divided into four main groups: Imperials, Nords, Redguards and Bretons. Imperials hail from Cyrodiil and are aquiline in appearance and somewhat Roman in culture - they are known for being lucky and adaptable folk. Nords come from Skyrim, with pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes; they are naturally resistant to cold and are tall of stature. Redguards are dark skinned and a large portion of their home region, Hammerfell, is made up of deserts. They have a resistance to poisons and are skilled at one-hand fighting. Bretons come from High Rock, a mountainous region. Some say they have mixed human/elvish ancestry, and they are inherently adept magic users. They have short-to-average height at best, so a tall Breton would be a notable rarity. Mer are elvish folk, divided into Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer and Orsimir (Orcs). Altmer, or High Elves, are gold-skinned and highly skilled in the use of magic - even more so than Bretons. Bosmer, or Wood Elves, make excellent archers and are stealthy. They resist both disease and poison. The Dunmer, dark elves, are so nicknamed after the god-like Tribunal of Morrowind betrayed an oath to Azura, which turned the entire Chimer race (save the Tribunal) dark-skinned with red eyes. Dunmer are highly intelligent and resistant to fire. They have a great reverence for their ancestors, but a rather tragic history, as their homeland has gone through much turbulence in recent years. Orsimir are the toughest of the mer; they are hardy, resilient and indomitable. They often gather in strongholds together and can be clannish and exclusionary - hardly surprising, as they are often scorned by other races in Tamriel.

**ª** Leyawiin is a city that borders Elsweyr, the Khaajit homeland. Elsweyr has been incorporated into the Thalmor Dominion, and I have inferred that lawlessness in the area increased after the War of the Red Ring. The climate is also warmer, along with the Colovian Highlands, an area bordering Hammerfell, where the independent Redguard populace maintains an uneasy truce with Thalmor and Imperial forces.

**¹** arsehole, idiot

**°** In Skyrim, vampires can assume the Vampire Lord form, in which they have bat-like wings and gargoyle-like features. I have taken some liberties here, as Vampire Lords are actually quite rare.

**˭** ancient elven race thought to have completely disappeared some time ago. Their use of architecture and magic is legendary.


	2. What Was Always There - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely Anarfea and CuriousSofa for volunteering as betas. They also gave me the idea to create a mod on the Skyrim Nexus so that books with excerpts from the story can appear in-game!

_Sherlock's sense of adventure was matched only by his courtesy - at least, to me. He extended the hospitality of his Riften dwelling to me. It is a cozy home, past Braidbread Row, with beehives in the back left over from some long ago mead brewer. Dame Hudson keeps it for Sherlock in his absence. The house is filled with all manner of alchemical ingredients and laboratory equipment, and both interior and exterior gardens are filled with plantings_ _harvested from all over Tamriel. Some seedlings have come from as far away as Oblivion itself._

_During the month of Morning Star 4E203, a traveling merchant brought news that two murders had been committed in Windhelm and that the killer remained at large. The source of the information came from Q’anjl-do, the leader of a prosperous Khajiiti trading caravan, whom Sherlock had been able to exonerate from a very messy murder._

_Q’anjl-do indicated that the two women slain in the killings were from very different social classes, and my friend’s curiosity was at once piqued by the discrepancy. He mused that there might even have been two different murderers at work, and he resolved that we would set out the very next morning for Windhelm by carriage. Unlike me, my friend eschewed horses as unpredictable beasts and avoided them, preferring to go by foot whenever possible. Sherlock was generally a man more at home in the city, but an interesting case could motivate him to go deep into the wilds, and his survival skills were excellent. This time, though, we agreed to leave our horses stabled in Riften in the interests of haste._

* * *

Shivering all the way, John crossed the bridge into Windhelm alongside Sherlock. They had arrived in the dead of night in the middle of a snowstorm, and though Sherlock didn’t clutch his cloak to him, John could see that his hands were already reddened against the cold. It would have been impossible to examine a crime scene in the middle of such a tempest, and John hoped they were headed to an inn straightaway.

There were a number of Stormcloak guards stationed at the great gates, even above and beyond what one might expect in a war-torn land. John knew that Sherlock had refused to take sides in the great dispute between General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric for Skyrim, deeming such a conflict as unimportant and dull. John supposed that as a soldier in the Legion he himself would have sided with the General by necessity, but since being discharged he allowed himself much more freedom in thought, and he privately felt that both sides were making impossible demands of the other. For now, the various holds declaring for either side had locked the forces battling Skyrim into a stalemate, and that didn’t trouble Sherlock at all.

Candlehearth Hall loomed before the two men, large and somewhat forbidding. Nevertheless, Sherlock muttered that there were no rooms to be had at the New Gnisis Cornerclub and that this was their only option. They barreled through the door into the Hall and John made a beeline for the barkeeper, a weathered-looking woman with pinched lips. Sherlock stalked to the fireplace and held out his hands, gazing out from the corners of his eyes at the patrons. John set several pieces of gold on the bar and asked the innkeeper to arrange lodgings for himself and Sherlock.

Her brows went down and she grimaced at him.

“With this weather? You think I’d have two rooms? You’re dumber than you look. You’re lucky enough I have one, and it’s dry and comfortable. One of you can just bunk on the floor.”

Someone in a corner let out a snicker along with a dry cough and John sighed. He agreed to the single room and supposed that he and Sherlock could flip a coin for the bed. Flipping a coin was better than tukta-bal-dalk*, as Sherlock invariably cheated.

The man himself was currently engaging a hefty Nord in conversation and John got close enough to overhear the burly man say,

“You. You a Dark Elf lover? Get out of our city, you filthy piece of trash.” John groaned internally. He might have known that Windhelm would be filled with intolerant Nords of this man’s ilk and that Sherlock would have the misfortune to meet them straightaway. Sherlock cracked a knuckle and smiled.

“A younger son, yes? But a second son need not be a disappointment - perhaps one too many times running away from battle? How he must have looked at you in comparison with older brother…”

“See here, I’m Rolff Stone-Fist, you freak, and I don’t have to take that from you or your half-breed little friend over there!”

Without meeting John’s eyes, Sherlock raised a hand, palm-up, within which glowed a spark of flame. It grew incrementally as Sherlock drawled out,

“You’re a very ignorant man to threaten John Watson - he could kill you with his bare hands before you hit the floor.”

Stammering, the man replied,

“All right, let’s just stick to you and me - you think you can take me? None of that magic stuff, either. Let’s go!”

Sherlock’s grin grew broader and, just as easily as he had conjured the flame, he pocketed it and discarded his cloak. Even as his cloak floated to the ground, Rolff took his first swing at Sherlock’s head. Everyone in the inn was watching the two brawlers now, and they gasped as Sherlock swiftly dodged the blow. Rolff growled and fell into one of the softer chairs next to the fireplace. He righted himself quickly and ran toward Sherlock, fists posed to punch him. Sherlock crouched down and upended the man, lifting him toe over head until he fell backwards onto the floor. Rolff lay prone, groaning and feebly wriggling his legs as Sherlock squatted beside him and grabbed the man’s jaw, speaking low enough so that only John could hear,

“I think we’re done for the night. If you dare to come after us I’ll beat you again and tell everyone where you really got that jerkin.”ª

With a gurgle, the man gave the slightest of nods and Sherlock released him.

“Come John, let’s go.”

The rest of the patrons stared at them with wide eyes and almost as one, they bowed their heads back into their meads. Sherlock murmured to himself,

“And thus no one has seen anything at all - this one was worth coming for, indeed.”

* * *

John had taken the floor without a word, spreading out his bedroll and foregoing his usual complaining about their quarters. He stared up into the darkness now, the candle having long since been extinguished. A hand rested itself on his forehead, and he leaned up into it.

“We left rather abruptly for me to gather any information about the victims - racists like our friend Rolff are tiresome in the extreme.”

John grinned into the darkness and knew that Sherlock could feel the wrinkles in his brow without seeing.

“All the same, thank you, Sherlock. And one day Rolff  might realize how lucky a man he is when he hears about your mastery in unarmed combat.”

He reached up to squeeze the hand resting on his temple.

* * *

The two men rose the next morning to see that the storm had broken at last. The snowbanks had been shoveled off the paths and the cobblestones gleamed in the brightness like jewels.

Against this picturesque backdrop, a gaunt woman sidled out of a crack in the wall that John could swear hadn’t been there a moment ago. She gave them both a broken smile and croaked out,

“Sherlock, it’s been so long! Just look how fat and healthy you are now - off the skooma¹ of course, you don’t smell of it, alas.”

John narrowed his eyes and Sherlock looked away, affecting an air of wounded innocence. John was convinced of Sherlock’s current sobriety but he and Dame Hudson still kept a wary eye out for any signs of substance abuse.

“Silda, I can tell you’re not short of pupils coming to learn your art.”  
  
“There’s always folk with heavy pockets, Sherlock. Someone’s got to teach the young how to spot ‘em.”

“Perhaps you can be of assistance to us now,” Sherlock said, pressing a generous quantity of coins into her grubby hand.

“It’s some wet work been going on here. Nasty business, none of my young’uns been involved for sure. Just past midnight, I heard a scream comin’ from next to the Chapel, - stingy buggers that they are - and there she was, dead. Sliced right open, and her so pretty and all. Maybe it’s some weirdo that’s after her - Kyne knows she was a buxom one…”

“Silda, did you see anyone? How about your urchins?”

“Oh, there was people there alright, but they come when they heard the screamin’ too. And for all that she was covered in blood, not a one of ‘em had a spot on. But…”

“Yes?” urged Sherlock.

The woman dug into her stained tunic and pulled out a brooch. It was covered with a bit of grime but John could tell that it was well-made, golden in colour and still rather new. It was more than likely a woman’s piece, circular with four small flowers at evenly distributed points, and a pin bisecting it.

“One of mine lifted it the other day. There’s no proof that it fell there after the crime, but the little fella said he runs by there on the regular, and never seen it before. It’s nice and all, see, but I don’t want anything to do with it if it’s part of a murder.”

Sherlock placed two fingers to his mouth, pausing in thought. When he stirred again, he answered,

“Perhaps we should hang onto it for now. If it turns out to be unconnected, we’ll return it to you.”

“And if it is? It’s a fine thing, Sherlock, and I’d hate to lose the income from it.”

One corner of the discerner’s mouth went up in amusement and John snorted down at his feet.

“Tell you what,” Sherlock replied, “If I can’t give it back I’ll replace it with something of equal value or a trade in kind.”

* * *

The two men had walked on from the alleyway, leaving a satisfied Silda, who had given them a black-toothed grin.

Sherlock and John paused at the castle doors and used their best manners to gain entrance - one of the guards had heard of John’s service in the Legion from a distant cousin of his, and they sought out Steward Jorleif to present their services. Once Jorleif determined that Sherlock wasn’t an immediate threat to Jarl Ulfric or a crook looking for easy money, he gave a brief synopsis of the murders.

“About two weeks ago, our Friga Shatter-Shield was killed in her own home, Hjerim, just down the lane from her family. It’s a damn shame, she was a lovely woman, just as sweet and kindhearted as…”

“Yes, very good, of course, do you remember the precise date?” Sherlock interrupted, and John threw him a dirty look.

“Well, no, but I’ve got my logbook here….yes, it was on Middas First, New…” John jotted down the date and Sherlock nodded curtly, telling the man to continue.

“And just three days ago, Candlehearth Hall’s Susanna was stabbed in the graveyard next to the Temple of Arkay. I saw her myself, afterward, and what stood out most was the one slash across her chest, above her...well, you know.”

“And the body now, has she been placed in the burial caverns yet?” Sherlock inquired.

Jorleif looked shifty-eyed for a bit and shuffled from one foot to the other before replying.

“Being a Talos-worshipper, she lies in state for the five requisite days.”

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently, silently dismissing the man’s reluctance to speak about Windhelm’s endorsement of Talos-worship, which was currently outlawed in all provinces.°

“We’ll need leave to view the body on our own, then, and speak with the rest of the witnesses.”

Jorleif seemed to shake himself a bit.

“‘Course...I’ll sign you a writ granting you passage anywhere in the city, saving the Jarl’s quarters and war room. But - if this has anything, absolutely anything to do with the war, I’ll have to restrict you both to the confines of Windhelm, and if you refuse, I’ll be duty-bound to hold you in the dungeons.”

John inhaled slowly and looked to Sherlock - they held each other’s eyes for a beat, and John gave the slightest of nods. John had no doubt that if they truly wanted to leave the city, no force could really hold them. Sherlock spoke for them both.

“We agree to your conditions.”

Jorleif nodded soberly. “You have the Hold’s gratitude. I’ll also turn over my notes to you, and - the guard said that there were three people he saw at the scene of the crime: Helgird of Arkay’s Temple, Calixto, a rather eccentric old man and Silda, a beggar woman. Maybe you’ll want to start with them?”

Sherlock ignored the question and turned to John.

“We will inform you of our findings, Steward Jorleif. John, let us go.”

* * *

“You know, Sherlock,” John said to Sherlock as they strolled past the market, “I find it strange that you’re much kinder to some of the petty criminals - the poorer ones - that we come across than you are to more upstanding folk.”

Sherlock paused in the doorway of an alchemist’s shop named “The White Phial,” his cloak swirling about him dramatically.

“John, since you’re so keen on making judgments at the moment, why don’t you attempt some discernments? You know my methods.”

John pursed his lips in consternation, more than a little disappointed at the ugly tone in his friend’s voice. He decided to take Sherlock up on his challenge, maybe unsettle him as much as he was unsettled.

“Well...sometimes they’ve got better information than the other people we talk to? Is that it?”

“Nooo,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John thought for a moment but held back.

“What is it? Don’t shirk from anything.”

John cleared his throat, “You do have a...past, when things were different.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed for half a second longer than normal, and he muttered, “True enough, John, but the answer still eludes you.”

John swallowed at his friend’s obvious discomfort but he wanted to see this through. To the truth...truth! That had to be it!

He met Sherlock’s eyes again in triumph, those eyes that shone like two beryls in firelight, and smiled.

“They have less to lose, so they’re more likely to tell you the truth! That’s it, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s mouth gave a strange twitch, and John suspected he was holding back a grin.

“Took you long enough.”

His gentle sarcasm felt like praise to John, and a warm feeling buzzed from his gut down to his feet, driving out the morning’s chill.

* * *

It was a tiny market with a few stalls for meat and vegetables, and the two of them rounded the corner to the graveyard. The door to the Hall of the Dead lay just ahead, and Sherlock gestured that they should proceed downwards.

The architecture was nearly identical to all of Arkay’s temples, with a brief reception area, and two corridors opposite one another, one for the priests’ living quarters, and the other for burial preparation, with doors leading to catacombs below.

The two men looked around them for one of Arkay’s priests, and finding none, they proceeded to the preparation room. The Temples were generally public areas, as long as one maintained a modicum of respect. In the starkly cold room beyond, they saw a stone slab atop of which was obviously a deceased woman, attended by a slight figure clothed in the garb of a priestess - hood and robes. She muttered,

“Large horizontal cut from left shoulder…”

John cleared his throat politely and began,

“Sister, we wish to ask you about the deceased. I am John Watson and this is Sherlock of High Rock, a professional mage and discerner…”

The person turned, and John saw that she was an older Nord woman with a scowl on her face.

“Oh, greetings, guests, I am Helgird. This is the Hall of the Dead, of course - someday you’ll end up here.”

Sherlock sighed and John laid a hand on his forearm, attempting to forestall rudeness of any sort toward the elderly woman. She abruptly shrieked,

“Yngvild! I’m busy with visitors! Get yourself down here at once!”

She turned back to the men and in a gravelly voice explained,

“My apprentice, for the day when I pass into Arkay’s realm. Not as young as I used to be.”

John nodded his head deferentially and in a gentle voice said, “Sister, I am an adept in the art of restoration and a former battle healer. May I ask you about the body?

Sherlock had already headed over to the dead woman and thankfully, Helgird made no objection.

“Well, she’s dead. But I guess that's not unusual, at least not for somebody in here. I mean, someone who's not me, that is. Sorry, was only joking with you.”

Sherlock snapped his fingers without turning his attention from the body and Helgird chuckled to herself.

“Right, the only unusual thing is the residue in the cuts. They look like they were left by... well, it’s rust. Who would use an old weapon like that?”

Bent over the corpse, Sherlock said, “Tell me how you found her.”

Helgird scratched her head and replied, “I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes when you’re old, that happens. It always relaxes me to pray over the dead, you know, ‘watch over the dead with mercy and kindness...’”

Sherlock interrupted, saying, “Yes, we all know the prayers of Arkay. Could you please go on now?”

The priestess huffed out and stamped a foot, “Well, there’s not much to tell. I turned to walk the rows and there was a guard with a torch. I screamed straightaway, certainly not expecting to see any living amongst the dead. That Calixto came running up from behind me, he’s an odd one - and last of all, I saw Silda wander on up from the other side of the chapel.”  
  
“Describe the body, now, how you saw it.”

“She was lying on a slab, one of the full length ones. It’s in good condition, that slab, all of mine are….anyway, she was dressed in that scandalous gown she wears - they called her Susanna the Wicked they did - and she was sliced all over. There was blood all over her, from her neck down to her skirt. Some of it even got on the folds near her feet.”

“Could you tell whether she had been killed there?”

“You know, I can’t say for sure. I know the ground beside her was bloody, but that could be because she was killed there or dragged. Is that important?”

John was a bit skeptical of the woman’s ignorance, and asked her, “Did you have anything to do with her death?”

She snorted at him. “Are you serious, healer? Do you really think I’d stand here talking about it if I had?”

John’s attention was drawn to the stairway, where a strapping ginger Nord stood. Helgird’s attention was drawn to him and she cried, “lazy boy, where have you been? These two are here about the murder. They might be able to tell us who killed our Susanna.” She turned to John.

“I took Yngvild on a few months ago. He’s a goodly lad with the record-keeping and the praying, even if he does get a bit puny around the bodies…”

“Helgird!” The young man interjected. “You know that’s not true. The other day I laid out those two loggers just fine.”

The elderly priestess chuckled. “There I go again, wandering in my old age. Must be thinking of some other priest.”

Yngvild gently laid a hand on her arm. “Helgird, you asked for me?”

“Hmm...oh, yes! I meant for you to carry on with the midday prayers in the crypts. Check the candles and all that, put out fresh flowers, since I’m here with them.”

The man bowed his head and answered, “it will be done, Sister,” before turning to go to the catacombs below.

“John, come here!” Sherlock demanded.

John rolled his eyes and approached the slab.

“Tell me what you see. I need your expertise.”

He took in the deceased woman’s form and made some mental notes, eventually turning the body to its side to view her back. She had definitely died from one of three stab wounds, and it looked like she had been stabbed from behind. But it was her chest that struck John as particularly odd.

“Sherlock, she’s been slashed across her front in short gashes, but look,” he said, pointing, “there’s two long cuts across her collarbone here. Why? Why there?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration before adding, “Why, indeed?” He took several paces away from John.

“What do you notice about the weapon used?”

“Er...it’s rusty?”

“Oh, come on, I know you can do better than that! That barmy old woman already told us that!” he hissed out.

John racked his brain, trying to observe the body as Sherlock did.

“The ones through her from the back are careless, stabbed deep - he killed her fast - but he had to have taken more time to take the shallow, spaced cuts in front - she was already dead then…”

“Yes, and…?”

“The spaced cuts are raggedy?”

“Yes, yes, but see here, look at the drag on the chest wounds, up on her clavicle. See? Starting here, there’s a fainter cut, then a cut over it. It’s unique to a particular kind of weapon used inappropriately.”

“And what is that?” John asked.

“It’s a scimitar.”

John’s eyes grew wide and he smiled up at Sherlock.

“That’s amazing!”

Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Does that mean we’re looking for a Redguard warrior? Only they use scimitars.”

“Ha!” Sherlock scoffed. “There’s no Alik’r I’ve ever met who would keep a weapon in such disrepair. No, they well know how to use sand and water to keep their swords in the very best condition - it would be considered a disgrace to handle a blade as rusty as this one must be. No, this was done someone with a scimitar who scarcely knows that it is a scimitar. It’s probably the only iron they possess; but, as you can see...it was effective enough.”

The two of them stared at Susanna’s lifeless body, cruelly marred and stained by rust, and John desperately hoped that they could bring her killer to justice.

* * *

When Sherlock and John left the temple the sun was already starting to pass beyond its zenith. They had just completed an examination of the woman’s clothes and Sherlock had determined that the circle brooch had not been worn by Susanna on the night of her murder - the woman had instead adorned herself with numerous gold-plated bracelets and a decorative necklace. Sherlock commented that in her profession the likelihood of losing such a brooch in the pies she baked would be too high, and that the brooch was also solid gold. He resolved that they should move on and seek other witnesses, perhaps stopping by Calixto’s House of Curiosities.

Evening came quickly in the winter, and John tucked his hands into his cloak to warm them. Sherlock had just popped his hood over his head when they heard a “-psssst” from a guard standing nonchalantly at the foot of the path they had used to reach the temple.

Sherlock crooked his head and strode over to the guard.

“Yes?”

“Heard you’ve been looking for the Butcher, right?”

“If by Butcher, you mean the person or persons responsible for the untimely deaths of two Windhelm citizens, then yes, that’s us,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, I found her right over there,” he gestured.

“Ye-es,” Sherlock enunciated slowly, for the sake of those who were slower on the uptake. “We were just headed there.”

“Well,” the guard said, looking shiftily around him, “it was cleaned up for the sake of the public, but I didn’t clean everything up. Figured there might be someone who wanted to dig deep.”

Sherlock looked impressed.

“Tell me what you left behind.”

* * *

John and Sherlock took a cursory glance at the slab where Susanna had once rested, after which Sherlock quickly began to scan the ground in front of him. He spotted a few stains that still clung to the foundations of the Temple, pulling out what he called his “ocular enhancer” to drag over the ground adjacent to the drops of blood. John always suspected that he had devised it after visiting some Dwemer ruin, but Sherlock hadn’t confided in him about its true origins.῁

Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (John assured an inquisitive Altmer female that Sherlock had lost a family heirloom last night) the two men traced the minute amounts of blood to the window of a stately looking home.

“John, look,” breathed out Sherlock with a tone of excitement.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“It’s the house marked in Jorleif’s notes. This is Hjerim.”

“Wait, but...wasn’t this Friga’s house? Where she was killed?”

“Most certainly it is, John.”

“Please tell me we’re going inside, Sherlock.”

“How could we not, my dear John?”

* * *

The greatroom of Hjerim had been stripped bare of furniture and, by the looks of it, an ambitious spider had begun to set up shop in the corner. Sherlock swept upstairs and John could hear him stomping along, so John went to examine the kitchen. The two of them found nothing of interest in either location and agreed to split up again, this time Sherlock would tackle the basement and John would explore the first floor storage room. He looked at the empty room and mused that it would be an ideal place for someone to set up an alchemy table. However, he found nothing, and disappointed, turned back to the hallway. But when he turned back into the hall, he saw a ray of sunbeam illuminate a cracked door that he hadn’t noticed.

It was easy to see why it had gone unnoticed - it wasn’t a doorway at all, but a bookshelf that opened inward. John had seen some similar additions to homes in Cyrodiil - it was a clever way to store valuables. As he pushed the bookshelf in further, a gruesome sight came into full view.

“Sherlock!” John shouted.

“What? What is it, John?”

“I’ve found...something,” John replied. He wasn’t sure how to describe the grim spectacle, but from what he could tell, it seemed some sort of sacrificial table. He felt the tall form of his friend beside him.

“Oh! Now this is something, indeed!” Sherlock exclaimed, nearly leaping into the small room to examine the scene.

A stone table was set in the center of the room and blood covered both it and the floor...and the wall. Several melted candles were placed underneath the platform in two neat rows, and a badly damaged skeleton was spread on top of the table - blood was smeared all over it, suggesting that the skin had been peeled and boiled from it. Two rusted embalming tools were laid in different places around the corpus - John recognized them as a scalpel and scissors. In front of the table, perfectly centered and drawn in chalk, was a circle within a circle, and a large rune within. The letter was written in calligraphy and it appeared as a backwards number “7”, but as bold as it was chalked in initially, it seemed to trail off sideways at the bottom. Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on the symbol within the circle and he blinked repeatedly.

“Sherlock?” John asked with some trepidation. “Do you know what that is?”

The discerner seemed to shake himself, noticing John again. He nodded slowly and placed his hands, palms together, underneath his chin.

“It is the main symbol of a necromancer’s summoning circle - ‘Kvata’ - though it seems to be unfinished,” he said, frowning.

John shivered as Sherlock said the word “Kvata.” He didn’t consider himself superstitious, but he had come across more than his fair share of necromancers in Cyrodil. John was a fairly well-educated battle healer, and, having spent a scant amount of time at the Mage’s College in Winterhold he knew that technically many skills in the Conjuration school used necromantic techniques; however, the designation of Necromancer was associated with the use of magic for selfish, dark and offensive acts, such as the punishment of other mortals by murdering and enslaving them with black soul gems, gaining contact with Daedric princes by means of human sacrifice or trading the lives and souls of others to become a lich.

The stone table, skeleton and copious amounts of blood were clear indicators of dark magic.

John gestured to the circle below.

“Should we rub it out? In case the necromancer comes back?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked at it.

“No, I think...no, not necessary. There’s something about it that’s…”

Breaking off, he put his hand to his mouth and John knew that he would say no more on the subject until he chose to do so. Instead, John turned to the blood, jotting down the placement and the estimated quantity. It wasn’t the full measure of blood that a human body contained but it was enough to be fatal, and John wordlessly handed his journal over to Sherlock with his observations. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, and he removed a small vial and a probe from his tunic. He scraped a few flakes of blood from the table to place in the vial and turned to John with a satisfied smile.

“Let’s be off to Nurelion’s shop. I’ve heard he has an alchemist’s table and a selection of texts that might be of assistance.”

“The blood discernment test, Sherlock?”

“Absolutely, John.”

* * *

John and Sherlock were greeted warmly at The White Phial by Nurelion’s apprentice Quintus Navale, who was happy to see a fellow Imperial countryman. He gave Sherlock free rein of the alchemy lab and Nurelion’s collection of books. John began perusing some of the shop’s other texts, always on the lookout for Volume Two of The Mystery of Talara - John enjoyed books with details about other healers. He became aware of a presence at his side and looked up to see a worried Quintus.

“Sir...if you could…would you come look at Nurelion for me? I know he’s ailing, but I don’t know what I can do for him.”

John looked over at Sherlock where he was hunched at the alchemy table. He was completely engrossed in his activities there, and by John’s judgment would be there for some time.

“I will see what I can do for your teacher, Quintus."

* * *

John was more than ready to leave the shop by the time Sherlock leapt over the pile of books he had accumulated. John had discovered that Nurelion was afflicted with a wasting disease that no spell could relieve. In spite of Nurelion’s grouchy comments about his gross incompetence, John had placed a strong spell over him that would grant some temporary relief and had taught the spell to Quintus. He suggested a regimen of bolstering potions, but also advised the distraught apprentice in private that Nurelion was not long for this world.

As he explained this to Sherlock on the way to back to Candlehearth Hall, he noticed his friend becoming increasingly distracted and troubled. Sherlock halted, pulling John back to him by his shoulder.

“I’ve discovered some things about the case, but I think we need to go where there are fewer ears about.”

John raised his eyebrows - clearly their potential suspect list had been considerably narrowed.

“Where are we going?”

* * *

The two of them passed over into the Grey Quarter, so named by racist Nords for the Dunmer who lived there. The Dark Elves had close ties to Skyrim, particularly since the eruption of Red Mountain only two hundred years before, when the ash and fire had decimated Vvardenfell, forcing any survivors into surrounding lands. Here in Windhelm, the Dark Elves had prospered until the rise of the Stormcloaks, who had a strict but hypocritical “Skyrim for Nords” attitude - ridiculous since the city itself depended upon the labour of Argonian fishers and Dunmer farmers.

Sherlock steered them to the New Gnisis Cornerclub, a rather dilapidated establishment with tattered banners. When they first walked in, the patron remarked,

“Come slumming to the Grey Quarter, have y- oh, wait a minute,” he said to Sherlock, interrupting himself. “You’re tall for a Breton…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, wait,” the barkeep said. “My cousin Dravin outside of Riften wrote me about a tall Breton who brought back his bow - thieves had stolen it.”

John elbowed Sherlock, who answered,

“I remember. The bow was in the Ratway...your cousin gave me money but I didn’t really need it so I gave it to Dame...”

“Yes, he means ‘You’re welcome,’” John said, stepping on Sherlock’s toe to shut him up. He turned to the Dunmer. “We’d just like some ales and maybe some food, if it’s alright?”

“Alright? Of course it’s alright! I’d be honored to serve the man who helped my cousin. Have a seat, there’s plenty of room.”

John and Sherlock settled down at the bar, where they could keep an eye on both the barkeep and his employee. They were almost alone, with only the Altmer female from the market over in the corner. The barkeep delivered some leeks, cheese and a single sweet roll, which Sherlock plucked from the plate and set into with vigor.

While John dug into the leeks, Sherlock told him in a low voice,

“The blood I found was human - not mer or beastfolk. At least we know that the person who spread it is likely a killer, but there are several things we don’t know. First, we don’t know who the blood belongs to,”

John tried to interrupt Sherlock, wanting to explain that it surely belonged to one of the two murdered women, but Sherlock stopped him.

“...no, we don’t know for sure. It could be a third victim, one we haven’t heard about. But definitely human, and definitely murdered - you said that no one person could lose that much blood and live. Second,” Sherlock said, continuing, “we don’t know if the person who staged that scene was an actual necromancer. It’s possible that they could be an amateur, a neophyte necromancer. That table isn’t really an altar, although it could stand in for one in a pinch. The skeleton could be a sign of necromancy, but there’s no geode or ground nightshade. There are embalming tools, but they’re typically used with a fresher corpse, one that hasn’t decayed. The candles really have no purpose other than to look spooky, and the rune...see, John, it’s the rune that really calls into question that there was an actual summoning…”

John leaned forward onto his elbows and studied Sherlock’s expression - grey-green eyes stared off into the distance, and John absurdly noticed that his lashes were dark and curled.

“...a necromancer’s rune, in order for it to work, must be cast or invoked. The letters would glow, even if partially completed. This ‘necromancer’ was either practicing the spell...or was no necromancer at all.”

"Well, where do we go from here?" John asked.

"I think that with the lateness of the hour it would be too conspicuous to seek out Calixto and interview him. From what I've gathered, his shop is open for a relatively short amount of time, and I want to get a good look around. Also -" Sherlock lowered his voice conspiratorially "we can always go back in if we see anything of interest the first time."

John stifled a groan. Sherlock enjoyed using his lockpicks far more than was appropriate for an upstanding citizen, and had even begun teaching John the finer points of the art.

"There's this, too," Sherlock said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his tunic.

It was a handbill of some sort, titled, "Beware the Butcher!" John opened it up to read:

_Beware the Butcher!_

_The killer who haunts the streets of Windhelm!_

_These calamitous times bring out the worst in people, don't become the next victim!_

_See Viola or Piccola Giordano if you spot any suspicious behavior._

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Calamitous times?” he said in amusement. “It seems a bit dramatic, but perhaps we should talk with these two? You don’t think that they’re involved, do you? I mean, they’re acting like they’re trying to find the killer.”

“It’s too early to tell, but we’ll definitely be visiting with them. They’ve got a house just across from Friga’s family. Perhaps they’ve seen more than they’ve written in this handbill - I found this one posted along the alleyway.”

John took a long draw of his ale and nodded. He still felt troubled, though, and had the vague sensation of someone watching them and said as much to Sherlock in a discreet whisper. Sherlock replied to him quietly,

“It’s the Altmer. She’s definitely watching us, but not following – it’s simply coincidence that we’ve run into her again. She’s not a murderer, but she’s a thief and probably a fence,” he pointed out.

“Now just how in Tamriel do you know that?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled to himself and explained, “look at the belt she’s wearing. She’s got on common merchant’s clothes, but that clasp is pink gold. Most people would mistake it for copper, but the shine is too high for that. Far too rich and unique for a simple shopkeeper.”

John smiled and let out a soft exhalation of wonder.

“Also, look at the scabbard by her side. It’s soft and well-treated – she keeps a weapon in there at the ready. And,” he continued, “she relies upon flexibility and acrobatics. Her forearms don’t have the musculature one might need to continuously lift a scimitar, and while the scimitar wasn’t handled by someone trained in it, it required strength to carve with it.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” John said. “It’s always stunning to watch your discernments.”

Sherlock smirked and replied, “You know my methods, John,” before lapsing into silence once more, clearly deep in thought.

* * *

He was in a crypt with stale air, musty from long years of disuse. A defeated draugr˭was stretched out in front of him but he could hear others stirring from their tombs. The dead were restless and they let out a dry clicking as they rose, air unnaturally filling broken lungs. However guilty he felt disturbing the dead, he had no choice but to slay them mercilessly, shooting one with his crossbolt and jabbing another with his knife. A third draugr, bolder than the others and massive, circled around him.

He beat it off repeatedly with his shield, crying out when a knife slashed over his shoulder again. It burned as of ice, striking into his very bones, but he rallied and swung his sword down viciously. He lopped the draugr’s head off its shoulders and breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath, when he heard familiar screams coming from the antechamber beyond.

He ran and saw a beloved form in a death struggle with a sinister masked figure on a raised platform, high above the flow of an interior waterfall. The ghastly attacker was clad in tattered robes and carried a mighty staff, which glowed with malignant magic. Even as he ran, his friend stumbled and fired off a powerful fire spell, which knocked the dragon priest backward. But the assailant recovered quickly, and he saw a ripple in the air, a motion that disturbed the very fabric of the world and he heard an almighty shout. His friend was rendered helpless and tumbled in response to the force; it repelled him to the precipice, and his hands scrabbled for purchase in vain.

He fell and John’s heart clenched in his chest and he was helpless to stop him falling, and Sherlock fell…

and fell…

his falling had no end…

“John!” the water roared in his ears.

Louder, and now the waters were covering his own face...he had jumped in…

“John, wake up! Awaken!”

With a start, John sat up in the bed, panting. Sherlock was pulling on his shoulders, shaking him.

“You were just dreaming, John. It was just a dream.”

“Sherlock...I…”

“Calm, John. Please...be calm now,” Sherlock urged, and he raised his hands, creating a gentle green glow.

John was finally able to still his breathing and he looked at Sherlock in the verdant glow. His anguish dissipated and his pounding heart recovered. Within ten seconds, his hands were still trembling but his panic had finally drained away. He was in the bed at Candlehearth Hall and he and Sherlock were in Windhelm, not in a distant tomb deep underground. Sherlock had given him the bed for the night and had been meditating on the floor when John dropped off into sleep.

“Alright, I’m alright.” With a shred of his good humor, he said, “You really shouldn’t use that Calm spell on non-enemies, Sherlock. It’s a bit not good to manipulate people that way.”

Sherlock scoffed, “It’s not like I do it very often, John. It’s not something I’m skilled at, but you were about to wake the whole place. They’ll put us out in the cold if you’re too much trouble.”

John sighed. “I’m...sorry. I can’t control the nightmares, and I wish they weren’t so vivid.”

The light from the Calm spell drained away and Sherlock lay back down on the floor. His voice came through in the darkness.

“Was it the war again?”

John didn’t know how to respond. Dreams from the war were infrequent these days; instead, he alternated between nightmares where Sherlock was in deadly danger or visions of danger of another kind... intimacy with his friend - triumphantly finishing a case, sitting beside the fire...and sometimes...walking the seventeen stairs up to one of their rooms together…

He couldn’t share any of this with Sherlock, so instead he answered,

“No, just a dream of an old tomb. You know they’re all over the place, and the stories were always frightening for a young lad.”

There was a time where neither of them said anything, and John was convinced his friend had fallen asleep before him for once - until he felt a hand grip his.

“Yes, I understand. But John…” the voice said tentatively, “you were calling my name.”

John gasped aloud but the hand tightened around his comfortingly. So he said nothing more, but gripped the strong fingers back.

John didn't recall falling back to sleep, but he didn't remember the hand withdrawing from him, either.

* * *

* * *

_**Footnotes** _

*I used some words from Ehlnofex, the language of ancient Nirn, to make “story-rock-knife” for Sherlock and John to play.

ªIn spite of all that you as the player character can loot in tombs, grave-robbing is generally frowned upon.

¹A drink made of moon sugar that has both stimulating and narcotic properties. An upper mixed with a downer, so to speak, that induces inebriation. In some provinces, traders will not do business with you if you have it on your person.

῁The Dwemer or deep elves, are another Mer race who disappeared – the rumour is that all of their people vanished when one of their number began experimenting on the Heart of Lorkhan (a god/demi-god). Their ruins are all over Tamriel.

°The Eight/Nine Divines. The Divines are worshiped as part of Imperial culture - they are now revered across Tamriel and are known for being primarily benevolent. Their worship was codified through the assistance of St. Alessia, who was able to synthesize beliefs from Nordic and Aldmeri cultures. The Divines manifest far less than mercurial Daedric princes but are nevertheless powerful and can grant blessings to mortals. Almost all of their temples can provide healing. They emerged along with the creation of Mundus, which was formed after the interaction of two major forces, Stasis and Change. They are often called the Aedra to differentiate them from Daedra. Here are their areas of specialty:

Akatosh – mightiest of the gods, oversees time. Associated with dragons, endurance and virtue.

Arkay – god of birth and death. Invoked at burials and changes of season.

Dibella – goddess of beauty and art. Her temples are sought out for both healing…and sexual instruction.

Julianos \- god of logic, wisdom, magic. Associated with education in history, literature and law.

Kynareth \- goddess of heavens, winds, and rain. Invoked for good fortune, looks after sailors and travelers.

Mara \- goddess of love, compassion, nature. Important at marriage ceremonies, associations with fertility.

Stendarr \- God of mercy and justice, and righteousness. Guards and looks out for those who seek to protect the weak.

Zenithar \- God of work, trade, wealth. Associated with business, encourages honesty and hard work.

and

Talos (Tiber Septim) – the 9th Divine, whose worship has been forbidden by the White-Gold Concordat, and agreement between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire. Tiber Septim was a mortal who united Tamriel into an Empire and his deeds were so impressive that he was elevated to a deity. On achieving godhood, he became known as Talos. Patron of the Empire and ideals of civilization (and war to defend it) - it is easy to see why the Aldmeri Dominion wanted his worship outlawed.

˭A reanimated Nord warrior


	3. What Was Always There - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John continue their investigation into the Windhelm murders.

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was already gone. No doubt he was already seeking the owner of the brooch or even touring Calixto's shop, so John pulled on his leathers and strapped his sword into its sheath before heading downstairs.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock seated at the bar, frowning into a full mug of mead. He smiled when he saw John.

"Would you believe that this town is simply swarmed with boring folk and their trivial gossip? They mention the killer in the most casual of ways and then just go about their business! They're very unobservant for the most part, no one seems to know about the brooch and I would be happy to never hear people's' miserable opinions on mudcrabs ever again. All the folk seem to agree that Calixto is a most unusual man, though. They say his sister died about two years ago and he hasn't been the same since then."

"Well, when can we go, Sherlock?"

"His shop opens within the hour. Here's some bread for you - she says it was baked this morning but really, it was yesterday. Hope that's alright?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

There were times John wished his friend refrained commenting about his discernments, and this was one of them.

"There's not...anything else off with it, is there?" John asked.

"Er, no. Might be a bit stale, though."

"I might as well have it, then. There was far worse in the Legion, believe me. Have I ever told you about the time when the supply carts were waylaid and..."

"Oh, sister, a former Legionnaire!" a woman's voice interrupted. John had to blink a couple of times before he realized that he wasn't hallucinating; two identical women, clearly twin sisters, had quickly made their way to the fireplace from the bar to stand by John's side. One of them held her hand out to him.

"I'm Viola Giordano, and this is my sister, Piccola," she said, gesturing to the side. John was pleased to note that though they shared the same pulled back greying hair and dark liquid brown eyes, Viola had a freckle on her ear that Piccola lacked. Sherlock rose from beside the fire and participated in the greetings.

Piccola began, "We've been following him for months now. Well, not actually following. Trying to find him. The guards won't help. The people won't help. I'm the only one who thinks he can be caught."

Sherlock assured her that most certainly criminals could be caught, particularly if one ascribed to the methods of discernment that he used. Before he could launch into an on-the-spot recitation of his oft-unappreciated book, The Philosophy of Discernment, John asked Viola,

"Why don't you think that the guards care?"

She snorted in contempt, saying, "they say they're too busy with the war - I say, what good is winning a war if we're still terrorized by one of our own?”

John had to admit she had a point, and Sherlock asked if they had seen anything. Piccola answered,

"Well, no. We sleep pretty deeply, so we didn't even know when Susanna was killed. Besides, if the Butcher's after young women, it's a bad idea to go around at night looking for him. We fear for our safety, and we wanted to put the handbills up to warn people - even though someone keeps taking them down."

Sherlock did not look the slightest bit guilty.

"That place Hjerim is really creepy, and I said as much to Friga when she moved in. Now look - all closed up again and Friga dead," Viola piped up.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, and Sherlock pulled out the brooch.

"Have either of you ever seen this brooch before? We're trying to identify the owner."

Piccola shook her head at once and Viola frowned, seemingly ready to indicate in the negative, but she stilled.

"That - that's Friga's. She wore it sometime in the fall, with the prettiest green cloak. I'm sure it was a gift from her family - they're very wealthy. She had quite a few suitors, but I don't know if any of them had the means to give her that sort of thing," Viola explained with a flip of her wrist.

Piccola, with great sadness, said “It doesn’t surprise me that it got taken from her. We’ve been burglarized, too, and the guards didn’t lift a finger to find our goods. I tell you, the Thieves’ Guild is responsible.”  
  
“What got taken?” John asked, opening his notebook, “can you describe it?”

“Our necklace,” Viola answered. “It’s a family heirloom. It’s gold, with what looks like a ruby in the center, but we’ve always known it’s a red diamond. It’s not the Red Diamond – you’d know about that story, being part Imperial yourself – but it’s one of only a few ever made.”

“And now it’s gone,” Piccola said dolefully. “One night after a society supper (it had been my turn to wear it) I took it off and laid it on my nightstand. And the next morning – nothing.” With a sad smile at Viola, she said, “Viola’s such a good sister, she never even thought to blame me. We both know the Butcher’s at fault, and we’ve taken to sleeping in the same room, keeping watch at intervals.”

"Are you going to keep looking for him? Someone certainly needs to. Where are you two off to next?" Piccola asked eagerly.

"We will certainly be investigating further," Sherlock replied. "I can't say at this time what our next step will be."

"Well, I'm glad you've got John with you. A soldier from the Legion...is it true what they say? About all the provinces you've seen?" Viola playfully asked, winking over at John.

John yelped as he felt a pinch on his bottom; in the course of their conversation, Piccola had withdrawn behind the two men. John sidestepped away from the women and, clearing his throat pointedly, said, "This has been informative, but I'm sure Sherlock and I must be going. Thank you so much for the assistance, ladies."

Without looking he made a beeline for the exit and waited for Sherlock in the shadow of the building. When Sherlock caught up with him, he peered at him in amusement.

"I don't suppose you wanted me to tell them about the three provinces you've 'seen' quite exhaustively?"

John heard the quotes in his voice and looked up at him in horror until he saw that Sherlock's eyes were bright with mischief.

"Well, er, I appreciated their help, but I'm not really interested. They seem nice and all, but, er..." he trailed off, not really caring to explain himself.

Sherlock shot him a grin and gestured broadly to the east.

"To Calixto's at last, John."

* * *

The door creaked alarmingly as they entered the ill-lit reception chamber of Calixto’s House of Curiosities. A few tables and several bookcases crowded the walls, and, even in the dim light, John spied a few cobwebs. The whole place smelled damp and musty; it was a poor attempt at a public attraction. There were a variety of alchemical ingredients on the shelves, harvested exclusively from Skyrim: void salts, salt, troll fat, frost salts, fire salts, bone meal, slaughterfish eggs, spider eggs, chaurus eggs and a bowl of mammoth cheese. They were rather unimpressive compared to Sherlock’s stockpile of ingredients back in Riften.

An enthusiastic voice came from the direction of the stairs,

“Welcome to the House of Curiosities! I offer a brief tour for a few coins, or you can simply browse at your leisure.”

A mild-looking middle-aged Imperial stood before them with his arms out. John presumed that this was Calixto, and he introduced himself and Sherlock, explaining only that they were visiting from Riften. The man was charmed by their visit, and happily replied,

“It’s good to meet you, sirs. I presume that as tourists you would like the tour, is that right?”

Sherlock stared back at him blankly for a few seconds and John made the decision to proceed with the tour before Sherlock’s silence was taken for the rudeness it was. John wordlessly pulled two septims from his purse and handed them over to Calixto.

Energized, Calixto darted over to the first bookshelf and gestured to a set of embalming tools. John recognized them as both a healer and a Nord, but he let Calixto chatter happily away.

“These tools were found in a crypt outside Windhelm. They belonged to the ancient Nords who dwelt in Skyrim before the days of the First Empire. Most scholars believe that the Nords of old used these implements to prepare their dead for burial. What macabre mysteries would these tools reveal if they could but speak?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened dramatically and he replied at last, “what mysteries indeed!” John noted that the tools were brightly polished, but that to make a complete set they would need a scalpel and scissors.

Calixto rubbed his hands together in response to Sherlock’s enraptured gaze and carried on with his narration. He bobbed over to another bookshelf and selected a dusty tome.

"Here is the Book of Fate, discovered in a secret room in the Arcane University. The writing in the book describes the destiny of its reader, so the words change from one person to the next. Some see only blank pages, and nobody knows why. Perhaps some of us are born with no destiny, or maybe the blank pages signify an imminent death."

Sherlock held out tremulous hands to take the book from Calixto and opened it. As he gazed at it, his hand went to his mouth and he gasped,

“John, you simply must see this!”

John shuffled over beside him and stared at the blank page. He caught the quickest flash of wickedness in Sherlock’s eyes and his lips quirked as he tried not to giggle.

Calixto sighed in satisfaction and conducted them to another shelf, "Ah, now here is an item out of legend. This is Ysgramor's Soup Spoon. Now, I know what you're thinking - this is no spoon, it's a fork! Nobody can eat soup with a fork! Well, my friend, you did not know Ysgramor."

Sherlock placed a hand over his heart, and proclaimed, “Ah, Ysgramor. A king Skyrim desperately needs today.”

John valiantly tried not to collapse in laughter as Calixto displayed yet another object for them.

"Don't let this innocent-looking flute fool you, for this is the Dancer's Pipe. Legend holds that the Dancer's Pipe has won wars, toppled empires and changed the very course of history. None know its origins, but the stories say that men who hear its music are compelled to dance uncontrollably, no matter the peril. To activate this strange power, one must only speak the magic words, which are... Oh my, I very nearly got us both into a nasty predicament, didn't I?"

“Oh, thank the Divines you didn’t!” Sherlock exclaimed. He tugged nervously at the collar of his cloak and looked relieved. “That was absolutely fascinating!” he said. “Where did you ever find all of these wonders?”

A shadow seemed to come over the man’s face and for the first time since they began speaking, the laugh lines around his mouth disappeared.

“My sister Lucilla…my sister and I journeyed across Tamriel to collect these wondrous artifacts after our parents left us a goodly sum of money. She...died two winters ago and I opened up the House of Curiosities. I didn’t expect that she would go...so soon.”

Sherlock, to John’s utter surprise, placed an arm around the man’s shoulders, and said, “it’s good that you’ve decided to share your collection with the public. I have no doubt that your sister would be greatly pleased.”

A gratified smile came back into Calixto’s eyes and he patted Sherlock’s hands warmly.

“Thank you for that, young man. I’m very glad of your patronage,” he said, nodding at John, “and I hope to see you again soon. In fact, come by again this evening and I’ll be happy to serve you some mulled mead.”

Sherlock, taking advantage of Calixto’s improved mood and the offer, inquired further. “This evening? I’ve heard it’s dangerous to walk the streets of Windhelm after dark.”

Calixto twisted his hands nervously and frowned again. “Yes, that is a nasty business. The other night I was near the graveyard where they found Susanna.”

“What were you doing there?” John asked, overcome with curiosity.

Calixto looked deeply troubled.

“I woke up that night, out of a dead sleep. There was a loud slam, like someone closing a door. And I thought to check it, to secure the door...and then suddenly, I…” tears welled up in his eyes. “I thought it might have been her. I thought I was going mad, and I had to go check her grave...to make sure she was still there. I...once learned some spells from a necromancer, and there was a time that I hoped I would know enough to...but it's just not possible, is it?” Calixto sniffled loudly and rubbed at his eyes with a sleeve.

“It’s pathetic, I know,” he said, looking up at Sherlock.

“Not at all,” Sherlock generously conceded. “Was there anyone else there at the graveyard?”

“When I got there, I saw a woman’s back. The guard came with his torch and I saw that it was Helgrim, the old priestess of Arkay. Then some other people showed up, and Susanna...she was ripped apart. It was just awful.”

Sherlock patted the man’s shoulders comfortingly.

“It’s over now. But John and I will do our best to take care on the streets and be in well before nightfall.”

He turned to leave and John joined him, but they were stopped by Calixto once more.

“Sir...you give the impression of a learned mage, and it seems like you have a fine appreciation of artifacts yourself. I’ve got some things I’d like you to take a look at.”

Calixto had pulled out a heavy amulet from one of his side pockets. It was strung on a black cord augmented by silver beads and the pendant itself seemed almost to glow green. The carving on the pendant, to John’s surprise, was a human skull. He thought to himself that Sherlock would love this amulet, as little as he seemed to care for jewelry of any kind. But as John studied it, he felt a slight tickle over his skin, the subtle presence of magicka - and it seemed to emanate from the necklace.

Sherlock took it from the proprietor and looked at it speculatively.

“I thought it might be the Wheelstone - that’s the traditional amulet worn by the Court Mages of Windhelm. I found it in one of Lucilla’s trunks. I’ve no idea where she might have found it, but we did spend one season apart when I lingered in White-Gold City.”

Sherlock rubbed at the central design and commented, “It’s interesting - I’ve not seen anything like it, but I don’t sense any magical properties. It could be that my magicka is simply too weak,” John snorted inwardly at Sherlock’s uncharacteristic self-deprecation, “but the crafting is quite fine. I will be going to the Palace of Kings shortly - would you like me to conduct this to Wuunferth, the court mage? I can give you an heirloom of my own to assure my honesty.”

Sherlock pulled out a copper horn of Stendarr from one of his pockets. John looked at him quizzically, but Calixto was happy to trade the necklace for the trinket and Sherlock assured him that they would return tomorrow with news about it.

“It’s a good thing I hung onto that amulet,” said Calixto. “I knew that there was probably some value in it. My suspicions were first aroused when a young man tried to trade me for it a few days ago.”

“Oh, really?” asked John. “Who was it?”

Calixto shrugged his shoulders. “I’m really no good with names or faces; much better with places and things. Anyway, when I wouldn’t trade him for the necklace, he just sold me this one,” he said as he pulled a bright gold amulet from a small chest atop the ingredient bookshelf. He smiled in satisfaction as he caressed it, “sold it for a pittance, I’d say – just look at it!” he proclaimed before resuming his sales pitch speech pattern.

“This necklace probably comes from the Glenumbra Moors of High Rock, where I believe you hail from, sir?” Calixto asked, nodding at Sherlock. “During the month of Frostfall, the Bretons commemorate the death of Empress Kintyra II, she of the red diamond. Could it be that the gem in this necklace is a shard from the Red Diamond?”

The amulet that Calixto held now was identical to the one Piccola Giordano had described, and John shot a meaningful sidelong glance to Sherlock. But he gave John the subtlest of negative nods, indicating that now was not the time to mention the Giordanos’ loss.

“Well, one never knows, sir,” said Sherlock briskly, “we have taken up enough of your time, and we wouldn’t want be in the way of other paying customers,” he said, in spite of the fact that they had likely been the only folk to enter the house in days.

Calixto nodded politely and they exited the House of Curiosities.

* * *

They paused outside of Candlehearth Hall, and John placed a hand on his own chin and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Almost under his breath, Sherlock muttered, “for Julianos’ sake! What an utter crank and charlatan.”

“Come now, Sherlock,” John chided. “His grief is obviously heartfelt.”

“Heartfelt it may be, but I have no idea what a simpleton like that is doing with this amulet,” he said, holding it up in the sunlight. “It’s literally strumming with magicka; I’m sure even you can feel it, though you have absolutely no sense for Destruction.”

Sherlock handed it over to John, who conceded that the necklace was stronger even than he had first believed. He placed it in his pack alongside his notes and asked,

“Do you think he’s the necrom- the murderer? He’s got the Giordanos’ necklace and I saw that set of embalming tools with the missing pieces. His excuse for leaving the house is laughable, and he’s obviously a bit unstable. He even told us that he had studied necromancy!"

Sherlock shook his head negatively.

“Socially unacceptable affection for his deceased sister aside, the deeds don’t match his mannerisms. He’s a terrible con-artist and he’d make an even worse murderer. Look at how he ended up with that stolen necklace – he couldn’t even tell us who sold it to him. He’s more interested in weaving fanciful tales about the most common of items than finding things of actual value.”

“So that leaves us where?”

“I think we should speak with Friga’s family. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield has just returned from the Winterhold Stormcloak camp, and even though Friga’s mother and sister are still in Markarth, he should at least have some information for us.”

John remembered the trinket that Sherlock had given to the curator and asked him about its origins. Sherlock coloured a bit and looked away shiftily before answering,

"Dame Hudson gave it to me before we left. Said she was absolutely certain it would provide me protection from harm. John, please don't tell her I gave it to that idiot," he pleaded. "She'd be ever so cross."

John hid a smile at the dominating mage's unexpected sentimentality. He was almost proud of Sherlock's comforting tones with the eccentric collector, even if they were mostly feigned. Beneath Sherlock's arrogant exterior, John knew that he had a great generosity of spirit.

"Your secret is safe with me," he replied.

* * *

They found Torbjorn at his house and after he reluctantly permitted them entrance, he took a seat at his dining table and gestured for John and Sherlock to join him. After staring at the bowl of apples on the table and the uneaten bread lying on his plate, he gruffly stated,

“Please forgive my mood. I’m still coming to terms with my daughter’s death.”

John sympathized with the man. Even though he had heard that Torbjorn was a harsh task-master to his Argonian employees, John still felt badly for the man’s loss.

“I know this is difficult,” Sherlock began, “but how long had Friga owned her own home?”

Torbjorn blinked several times before he answered, “She moved two winters ago. My Friga...she was learning so much about the business and she wanted to open up another branch in Solstheim. There’s been much growth in Solstheim, recently, and…well, that’s beside the point. My other daughter, Nilsine, is not much interested in the business, but perhaps her husband might be.”

Sherlock pulled out the brooch from his pocket and Torbjorn started at once.

“Where did you find that?” he demanded, reaching for the brooch. “It belongs to Friga - I had it crafted for her on her sixteenth birthday. You must tell me - where did you find it?”

Sherlock smoothly replied, “Per writ of the Jarl, I cannot explain yet as the investigation is still ongoing. I can assure you, however, that when this is concluded I will return it to you.”

Torbjorn put his head in his hands and groaned, “there’s always another reminder. Always. We took back her furniture, her clothes, and what we didn’t take we burned, but all will never be well again.”

“I am sorry, Torbjorn,” John said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We will find her killer,” he said with conviction. “We will bring them to justice. But..” he continued gently, “we must ask you some more questions.”

Torbjorn raised his head up and nodded.

“In that case,” Sherlock began, “could you tell me who Friga’s closest friends were? Was anyone courting her?”

Torbjorn snorted. “Friga had many friends; so many have gone off to the war, though. She had some interest from several suitors, but none of them were really good enough for her,” Torbjorn mused. “Yah,” he nodded, deep in thought. “All those rascals - there was Brond from the Inn and Roggi Knot-Beard, that scoundrel, and that wishy-washy priest from the temple. I thought that for a time she was interested in Gjalund Salt-Sage, but it turned out they were just talking over a way to ship our goods to Solstheim. When business started booming with the East Empire Company, I decided to offer Friga a betrothal with Aquillius Aeresius - he’s the second in command to Vittoria Vici herself!”

Torbjorn sighed. “But she said ‘absolutely not’ - said she had her own mind made up. And a fortnight later…”

He broke off and stared at his hand, twisting his fingers together. Finally, he looked up at John and Sherlock contemplatively.

“Don’t take anything for granted in life. Nothing lasts forever.”

Sherlock steepled his hands and placed them under his chin. John nodded and thanked Torbjorn for his time, promising that they would find Friga’s murderer.

* * *

Sherlock hadn’t spoken since they left the house of Clan Shatter-Sea. He and John had returned to Candlehearth Hall around midday, and they were still there, seated beside the hearth upstairs. John was going over his notes on the case, halfheartedly listening to Bard Luaffyn’s rendition of “Ragnar the Red,” when a loud bang came from downstairs.

“There’s another one! And this one in broad daylight!” yelled a male voice.

Sherlock and John jumped up immediately and ran downstairs, where a badly-shaken courier was pulling his own hair at the bar. Sherlock grabbed him.

“Who? Where?”

“It’s that mad Imperial, the one with that stupid shop - Calixto! He’s been killed and the guards were there - now no one is safe…”

They left the distraught young man and ran for Calixto’s.

* * *

Sherlock and John had to push aside several guards in order to get to the body. Steward Jorleif was already there, preventing the rest of the guards from moving the body to the Temple of Arkay.

“Please tell me you can find this madman, Sherlock,” said Jorleif, shaking his head. “I was about to send a guard for you. Is there anything you can tell from his body?”

Sherlock nodded at John and they both knelt beside the body.

“He was garroted,” John noted.

“From behind,” said Sherlock, pointing to the uninterrupted rope line across his throat. He looked around at the rest of the room before standing to address the guards.

"The first floor has been completely ransacked and I'd be willing to wager that the second has been as well - there's a pair of calipers carelessly lying on a stairstep that wasn't there this afternoon. Calixto was murdered by someone he knew, or that he trusted at least enough to turn his back to. It was someone not interested in dubious bric-a-brac all Calixto's "exhibits" are swept aside. As if someone was searching further compartments in the display cases..."

Sherlock broke off, frowning to himself, before continuing.

"Calixto didn't have his knife with him, otherwise there might have been some bloodstains from the assailant. The murderer took the rope with him, but perhaps there are some identifying features that remain..."

Sherlock stooped to examine the body once again and John stepped over to one of the bookshelves, where several dusty tomes had collapsed on themselves. He heard a sharp gasp from Sherlock and turned just in time to see him run from the house. The guards stared at one another in puzzlement and John crouched beside the body.

"What did you see...?" John said to himself. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to determine what Sherlock might have noted. John had examined the marks around the man's neck, his mouth and eyes -

The hands! A strangling victim might have reached up for the rope or behind them to try and escape. As John turned the fingers of Calixto's right hand, he noted abrasions in the palm; Calixto had grabbed at the rope. But when he raised the left hand, he saw that it was still slightly curled in on itself. John saw a slight shadow between two of the first fingers and leaned down closely to investigate.

There were red hairs trapped in between two of Calixto's fingers. Red hair...

John jumped up and pushed aside several of the guards. He ran out the door, calling, "Sherlock!"

There was no sign of him outside. John, hoping that his hasty guess was correct, raced to the Temple of Arkay.

* * *

Sherlock ran through the reception room of the Hall of the Dead, ignoring Helgird, who was sweeping in the corner. He dodged her and headed for the apprentices’ quarters.

It was obvious that the assistant priest was the murderer - of Calixto, at least, and of the murdered women at most. It was essential that Sherlock reach him to determine his motives. He had the method already - the young man had strangled Calixto, leaving behind red hairs. He likely had access to a scimitar in poor condition and would know just enough to draw the rough necromancer’s rune they had found in Friga’s house. But all this was just playing at necromancy, Sherlock pondered, also considering the rumors about Calixto and his sister. Some of the implements placed at Hjerim were meant to implicate Calixto. The scimitar was another tool used to point the finger at Calixto, for it was well known that he had traveled all over Tamriel. But why the elaborate scheme to frame the eccentric Imperial?

Sherlock had just enough time to trace this line of thought as he ran through the Hall’s simple dining quarters for custodians. He looked at the two corridors at cross sections from one another - a hanging priestess’ robe in the one on the right indicated that it belonged to Helgird, while the door on the left was closed. Sherlock slowly opened it and stood in the doorframe; to ensure that the room was empty, he cast a Detect Life spell. No luminescence revealed the presence of an enemy beyond.

He had just taken a step to the trunk stationed at the bed when he was seized by a sharp pain in his ribs.

“Clever, but you should have checked the other room first,” a trembling voice behind him said. A strong arm covered with red hairs caught him and lowered him to the ground. Sherlock knew without a doubt that the man - Yngvild - possessed a scimitar. It was even now piercing his side and he just managed to cough out,

“Kaoc,”* Sherlock said as he felt a trickle of blood escape from the side of his mouth. “Nice invisibility potion.”

The youth chuckled darkly.

“Glad you can appreciate it. Now, while you’ve still got some time, Sherlock, give me the amulet.”

Sherlock laughed and faintly said, “haven’t got it.”

* * *

Helgird was shouting at him when John pushed through the Temple Reception hall, but he ignored her in favour of loading a bolt into his crossbow. She threw down her broom and ran for the temple undercroft. Making yet another guess, John headed for the private quarters. He heard voices, muffled by the stone walls, but as he crept closer he could just make out a harsh demand,

“Give me the amulet.”

Rounding the corner, John recognized Yngvild from behind by his red hair, and when he saw that his friend was caught in a bear-hug by the priest, he lifted his crossbow.

“Let him go or I will kill you,” John promised.

Yngvild turned and half-lowered Sherlock to the ground, hooking an arm around his neck. Sherlock drooped as though all his strings had been cut, and Yngvild crouched behind him, pressing the point of a scimitar to his throat.

“Better put it down, Watson, or I’ll just kill him. I don’t think you’d want that?”

John swallowed and saw with dismay that the scimitar was already coated with blood. That explained Sherlock’s relative helplessness and slackened jaw. He’d never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, but he looked up in John's general direction with an unfocused, glazed expression. Even as John wavered, his eyes blinked slowly and his breathing slowed.

I can’t let anything happen to him, John thought. I owe him everything.

Reluctantly, he lowered his weapon, keeping his eyes fixed on his friend’s dazed face. But the vague look abruptly disappeared as Sherlock winked at him. A curious feeling came over John at once, like the tingle of a limb falling asleep, but all over his body, and it was accompanied by a strange sensation of emptiness. John was shocked as he realised that all his magika was being drained from his body, that Sherlock was draining his magicka. John saw Sherlock wave his fingers and his mouth twisted up in a half-smile. Yngvild began straightening up into a stand, slowly withdrawing the point of his weapon.

“Shoot him!” Sherlock yelled, and a pale blue luminescence crackled over his body.

John snapped his crossbow up as Yngvild jabbed the scimitar into Sherlock’s neck. John screamed in fury and shot out a bolt directly into Yngvild’s chest. He toppled backwards onto his bed, flinging the scimitar into a distant corner of the room, and John dropped his crossbow and pulled out his sword. As John ran over to Yngvild, he saw that the man was reaching for a pair of scissors on the nightstand beside him, and he dispatched him with a downward stab of his short sword. Yngvild finally gurgled and lay still, and John turned to Sherlock, who was crumpled on the floor.

His breath hitching in his chest, John lifted his friend’s curls from his face, expecting to see glassy eyes staring into a distance that John could not cross. Instead, he saw waggling eyebrows and a face full of amusement. John dropped his hand and let out a yelp.

“John, I appreciate the awe, but once again, I find myself in need of your help,” Sherlock rasped.

Amazed, John ran his hand over the Mage’s neck and found only a scratch, not the horrid gash he would have expected from the scimitar. Sherlock shook his head vigorously at John and gestured to his abdomen.

“Oh, Divines! Of course, Sherlock, at once!” John cried, summoning his magicka - it had gradually returned to him without his knowledge - and cast his strongest healing spell over Sherlock, who closed his eyes with an expression of deep satisfaction John had never seen before. He was soaking the spell up, basking in the orange glow that dappled his skin. He turned with a broad smile to John.

“Many thanks, my friend. But now…” he said, turning to Yngvild, who was gasping on the bed.

John could tell that the man was in his death throes and rushed to his side.

“Sherlock, there’s still time! I can mend him a bit, just for now, I’ve got just enough magicka. Later on, the Temple healers can restore him.”

Sherlock nodded his head but a hand gripped John’s arm from below. John looked up and saw that Yngvild’s eyes were filled with tears.

“No. No,” he insisted. “Leave it, please. This is how it has to end...the only way it could have…” he laughed bitterly, staring into space. Sherlock frowned and followed his gaze, turning his head to the door. His jaw dropped and the sudden change in his expression caught John’s attention. John looked up and his face froze.

“I never wanted it this way, Yngvild.”

The gentle voice echoed as though it came from a great distance, and John supposed that it did, in a way. He had heard legends of ghosts but he had never expected to see one. Everyone in Tamriel had stories about restless spirits, some benign, some malevolent. The tales always described the ghosts as having the forms they had once held in life, but with a unique transparency and delicacy. An impermanence that could be dispersed like smoke in the wind.

The figure of a woman, richly clothed, wavered in front of them all and she smiled gently at Yngvild. With blood bubbling up from his throat, he said,

“Friga. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was wrong.” Tears ran trails down Yngvild’s face and gathered under his chin and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“Please, be freed. Go...where your spirit wills it. Always.”

His hand loosened around John’s arm and his head slumped backward onto the bed. John let him go, and he and Sherlock turned to the ghostly presence. She bowed to them, as if in gratitude, and her form lost definition. Within moments it was as if she had never been.

John turned to Sherlock in utter confusion.

“What? I don’t understand? He killed her, then?”

Sherlock placed his hands under his chin before replying.

“It certainly seems that he was responsible for her death...and that her spirit was bound to his. But --” Sherlock paced in agitation, “he was no conjurer, he had only an apprentice’s knowledge of necromantic practices…”

Sherlock began fumbling in the priest’s trunk, and, finding nothing, lifted the bedspread. But as he raised the blanket his hand stopped in mid-hoist, and he squinted at the fibres.

“Dog hair. The amulet...Middas First...’be freed’...suitors…dog hair,” Sherlock muttered to himself, but then stiffened all at once, his mouth tightening in the ‘O’ that John had become well acquainted with in the last year. Standing tall, Sherlock shouted up at the ceiling,

“Clavicus Vile, what have you done? Come forth!”

John bit his lip in consternation. It was unwise at best to call upon any of the Daedric princesª - one never knew when they might answer, much less how they would reply.

A hollow, youthful laugh seemed to ripple through the room, and all the candles were snuffed out. A fell light rose up from the floor and John and Sherlock stared at one another, tensed and ready to run. John blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, a slight man and dog stood in the center of the room. The man had unruly, flowing hair, which almost served to disguise the horns rising from his head, and he was clad only in loose robes, garb that no ordinary Tamrielic traveler would assume. The enormous dog stood as high as the lad’s waist, and their proud bearing left no doubt; Clavicus Vile, the Daedric prince of wishes, had come to speak to Sherlock. The ring of laughter gradually faded from the room and a playful voice emanated from the smirking face.

“Sherlock, dear boy, it was ever so close there, wasn’t it? The Ebonyflesh¹ was a nice touch, I’m sure Yngvild never expected that!”

Clavicus Vile snickered again. Sherlock turned to John and said, “the amulet. Do you still have it?” John nodded and handed it to Sherlock, who held it up in front of Clavicus.

“Was this what it was all about, Clavicus? This stupid thing? Did you trap this poor boy into doing your bidding for it?”

The grey dog looked slyly over at John and pushed his nose into Clavicus’ hand. Clavicus Vile smirked again and took the amulet from Sherlock.

“Very good, you were always such a bright one. But I didn’t have to trap anyone, really! The boy asked for it, summoned me on the right day and everything. He wanted something so boring...you’d know all about that...’please make it so Friga will be with me always.’ All I did was grant his wish!”

He stamped his foot, childlike, and the dog scratched behind his ear with his back foot. To John’s amazement, it opened its jaws and drawled out,

“Clavicus does answer all wishes...in his own way, y’see. They were in love, after all...he just bound the girl’s spirit to Yngvild.”

Horrified, John blurted, “you…you killed her!” Sherlock laid a hand on his arm and Clavicus Vile shrugged.

“In a manner of speaking, sure. That whiny priest was so upset! He begged me to restore her body, so I said that I would if he would go find me the Necromancer’s Amulet.” ˭

Sherlock nodded to himself and extrapolated,

“And Calixto had the Amulet, not knowing what he had. But Yngvild, as soon as you told him...he made the wrong discernment that the Necromancer’s Amulet belonged to the Giordanos. There’s no way of telling what its true value is,” Sherlock eyed Clavicus speculatively, who merely responded with an enigmatic smile, “but Yngvild decided it was worth the risk to steal it. He probably hid Friga’s dead body, assuming that you would reanimate her as soon as he got the amulet for you. He was intensely disappointed when you refused it, and spent a sleepless night trying to determine what to do.”

Sherlock paced away from the pair and then turned, continuing to explain.

“It was Yngvild who went to Calixto with Viola and Piccola’s necklace! Once he showed Calixto his necklace, I assume that Calixto pulled out the amulet he had found. The skull design isn’t a dead giveaway that it’s the Necromancer’s Amulet of old, but it would have been worth it for Yngvild to show it to you.”

Clavicus Vile smiled, saying, “good, very good.”

Sherlock ignored his praise and spoke directly to John, waving a hand,

“Calixto was unwilling to trade for it, but by now, Yngvild knew the necklace would become a liability. He decided to pawn it off to Calixto rather than keep it, and it was likely then that he began planning on how to frame him. He saw the embalming tools and knew that Calixto had a reputation for continuously mourning his dead sister. Yngvild had a scimitar, perhaps a weapon he inherited or pulled from a deceased marauder whose body he prepared for burial. He knew that an exotic weapon like that would point the finger toward someone who was known to be well-traveled. So Yngvild returned to Friga’s corpse and began the grim task of desecrating it. Once it was discovered, Yngvild must have been disappointed that not enough folk were connecting Calixto to the crime, so he settled on the unfortunate Susanna to make his next example.”

“Sherlock, that’s brilliant!” exclaimed John. “But why did he go to Calixto’s and strangle him? People were starting to talk about him and his unusual ways.”

Sherlock looked upwards and placed his fingers under his chin. He turned and made a sweeping gesture with his hands over Yngvild’s body before speaking.

“There were a couple of reasons. Yngvild was becoming unhinged – do you remember Helgird talking about his unsettling behavior over one of the corpses? That was Susanna, she just didn’t remember which body Yngvild was troubled about. And we were investigating, and he was afraid that we would get to the amulet before he did, which we did. But…there was something else, too…”

Clavicus Vile let out a malicious giggle and the dog looked down at the ground, almost resignedly.

“It was Friga’s constant presence. She truly loved Yngvild, but because she was bound to him, she saw everything he did. Her despair over Yngvild’s deterioration must have been total and she would have urged him to give up the hunt, that he should beg Clavicus to free her spirit, that even a permanent death would have be better than the atrocities Yngvild perpetrated. Do I have it right?” Sherlock demanded.

The Daedric prince clapped his together hands in delight, “well done! What a neat little bow you’ve made from a nasty, twisted skein.”

John covered his face in despair and Sherlock sighed in disgust, saying, “what do you even need with the Necromancer’s Amulet? You greater Daedra don’t really use these powerful tools...” his eyes widened again, “unless you’re going to taunt another mortal with it…or trade a favour with another deity?”

“So clever,” cooed Clavicus Vile. “Sherlock, I would reward you with my mask...if you didn’t already have it. So instead I think I’ll just let you and little your pet go.”

John scowled at the prince and gripped the sword by his side. Sherlock took a step forward and clenched his jaw.

“You’re mistaken. John’s no pet, he’s my other half...but you and Barbas would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”°

The dog snuffled and John would have sworn that it grinned at them. Clavicus Vile crossed his arms over his chest petulantly and said, “don’t get all snippy on us. We’ve had such good times, after all.”

Sherlock stepped away from the pair and straightened up the bed, stopping only to cross Yngvild’s arms over himself. He stood again and addressed the prince.

“John and I will be taking our leave now. And if I ever catch you meddling in our lives...remember that I have also done a favour for Ebonarm.”῏

A thunderclap rang out, and before John could cover his ears, the room was filled with a blinding light for half a second. When John was able to see again, he realised that the Daedric prince had gone and that all the candles were alight, as if nothing had happened at all. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, and John was overcome by the desire to bury his head into his friend's chest. He refrained, and instead, he resignedly said,

"Daedric princes...false necromancy...soul binding...and you! I didn't know Mages were able to drain magic from their allies! How did you survive that jab? I thought...you made me think that..." John began breathing quickly, the words dying in his throat.

Sherlock ducked his head down, and to John it almost seemed almost chastened by John's words.

"It was Ebonyflesh, John. I drained your magicka so I could cast the strongest of possible shields on myself. It was a risk, but I knew I could count on you to incapacitate Yngvild. John..."

There was hesitation in Sherlock's voice and an underlying tone that John couldn't quite parse.

"Thank you. A hundred times, thank you. And do you know...your healing always feels warm to me. Like I've been lit within. No one else's has ever affected me that way - it's always meant to itch, but has anyone else ever described it to you that way?" Sherlock asked.

No one ever had, John explained to Sherlock. And as they left the Temple of the Dead for the streets of the living, John silently rejoiced over the tenderness he had finally recognized in Sherlock's voice.

* * *

_Though Jarl Ulfric was unavoidably detained at the front, we were both granted the title of Thane of Eastmarch by Steward Jorleif. The titles came with property in Windhelm and near Kynesgrove; oddly enough, the Windhelm property included Hjerim, Friga's estate. Sherlock and I wanted nothing to do with the house, so we agreed to quietly sell the property at a later date and donate the proceeds to the city's Argonian and Dunmer population. I will be keeping the shelter beside the river - one never knows when there might be a need for a stalwart camp in the Eastmarch. The Giordano twins were delighted to have their necklace back, and coyly suggested that Sherlock and I stay and court them both; we politely declined. The reward for bringing the Butcher to justice was five hundred gold pieces, which was the exact value of Friga's brooch. It might seem strange, but Sherlock and I must have been pickpocketed at some point, because the gold never made it with us to Riften. Perhaps it is serving some higher purpose back in Windhelm._

* * *

* * *

_**footnotes** _

*this is an Argonian expletive. I suspect it means “shit.”

ªTo put it briefly, Daedric princes can be right bastards. They are powerful, godlike entities who dwell outside/beyond the realm of Mundus. They alternately interact with mortals in benign or destructive ways and should be handled with care. Many mortals worship them as gods and shrines to them can be found across Tamriel. They often assume masculine or feminine forms, although, strictly speaking, they are neither. All of them, regardless of apparent gender, are referred to as princes, and they all have their own scope of influence. Much of the content of Elder Scrolls games is built around the necessity of dealing with their shit.

Here are some short of descriptions of Daedric princes:

Azura \- female aspect, princess of dusk and dawn, considered mostly good.

Boethiah \- sometimes female, sometimes male, prince(ss) of deceit and conspiracy.

Clavicus Vile \- male aspect, always paired with a doglike creature, which shares his power. He is the prince of wishes. As you have seen, he can grant wishes in a very cruel way.

Hermaeus Mora \- male aspect, reminds you of one of the Old Gods (tentacles). The prince of knowledge.

Hircine \- male aspect, the prince of the hunt. The hunt can really suck for the hunted.

Jyggalag \- male aspect, the prince of order. The alter ego of Sheogorath, see below.

Malacath \- male aspect, the prince of the outcast. Greatly revered by the Orcs.

Mehrunes Dagon \- male aspect, the prince of destruction and also bloodshed.

Mephala \- female or male aspect, the prince(ss) of weaving, ensnarement, the unseen order of events. One might say fate.

Meridia \- female aspect. Princess of energy of living things, absolutely hates the undead.

Molag Bal \- male aspect. Prince of domination or enslavement of mortals. Associated with vampires.

Namira \- female aspect, princess of decay. Associated with cannibalism and repulsive creatures.

Nocturnal \- female aspect, princess of night and shadows.

Peryite \- male aspect, prince of pestilence and disease.

Sanguine \- male aspect, prince of revelry and debauchery. Drink, eat and be merry…and indulge in lots of sex.

Sheogorath \- male aspect, prince of madness. Rumor has it that he shares his being with Jyggalag, the prince of order, and that Jyggalag was feared for his growing power by the other Daedra, who turned him into Sheogorath. Always appears as a dandy with a cane, and to borrow a phrase from Wordstrings, “is mad as ferrets.” He gets a long description because I think he is hilarious.

Vaermina \- female aspect, princess of dreams and nightmares.

And finally:

Lorkhan \- male aspect, trickster deity. Some say he was once a Daedric prince but was cast down into Nirn itself and incorporated within it.

¹a powerful Alteration spell that protects the caster from all physical damage by up to 80%.

˭According to the lore in Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, the Necromancer’s Amulet is extremely powerful and once belonged to Mannimarco, King of Worms (he is one of the main antagonists in Elder Scrolls Online). The player character in Skyrim is not able to identify the strange amulet from Calixto until the “Blood on the Ice” quest is complete.

°Clavicus Vile and Barbas cannot exist at their full power without one another.

῏Reymon Ebonarm is another deity (Aedric but not in the Imperial pantheon) that is worshipped in Hammerfell. He is the god of war and the patron of the Fighters’ Guild in the Alik’r Desert. He loathes all Daedric princes, and, for some reason, Stendarr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that in the next chapter Sherlock and John spend some quality time in the wilderness.


	4. To the Throat of the World and Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ::casts Illuminate spell to light up the E rating in reminder::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to my beta readers Anarfea and CuriousSofa. I am so grateful for your time and thoughtfulness.

_We traveled to Whiterun in the month of Sun’s Height to visit with Proventus, a colleague of Sherlock's who had once gone to the College of Winterhold with him. Proventus had written to Sherlock about a relic he had found, the Dragonstone. When we met him, he made several disparaging remarks about adventurers in general, but his retainer, Jarl Balgruuf, was willing to pay a worthy fee for Sherlock's consulting services. The fee did not catch Sherlock’s attention but the artifact certainly did. We set off to Bleak Falls Barrow, the suspected source for the Dragonstone, and discovered much dragonlore of note._

_On our return to Whiterun we discovered with dismay that a dragon had been sighted at the East Gate. After it incinerated many of the guards and decimated the watchtower, Sherlock and I managed to bring it down with his Destruction spells and a rain of bolts from my heavy crossbow. To my (and his, though he'd deny it) considerable surprise, Sherlock subsumed the dragon's soul, allowing him access to its powers. Sherlock was Dragonborn. At first my dear friend was perturbed, citing his newfound powers as a "dreadful nuisance," but, in keeping with his nature, he became excited by the mystery of the dragons' return. To that end, we resolved to climb high the seven thousand steps to the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. As we rested at the foot of the mountain, our already close friendship deepened into a profound understanding of one another and no doubt the goddesses Mara and Dibella watched over us both._

* * *

It was the one of those rarest of moments - they were both wrapped tightly in clean blankets next to the fire. Sherlock was motionless, staring into the flames, and John, too, had stilled himself after sharpening his weapon, writing his chronicle and tidying away the cooking gear. Sherlock had located a secluded perch for them to set up a small campsite on; it was tucked some distance away from the path and anyone attempting to reach them would need to first climb down by about four feet through the bracken.

They were now perched on adjacent logs, and John took the opportunity of his friend's meditative state to view him in profile.

Sherlock's dark hair was still drying in ringlets across his forehead, and, not for the first time, John stared at those full lips of his. They were plump and pursed, and their tempting color was that of the Redwort. John was aware that his thoughts were far from chaste - gods knew he had already stolen more than a glance earlier at the stream where they had washed. John had surreptitiously watched rivulets of water trail down his friend's chest, over dusky pink nipples that peaked up at the cold. Yes, water that trickled down into the hip wrap, which already clung to the man, soaked from when he had ducked himself. The cloth had stuck to him so that John could see the outline of his -

"You're staring again," Sherlock observed, jerking John out of his recollection and turning to meet his eyes. John felt himself flush under the sudden scrutiny but noticed that Sherlock's gaze was far from hostile. There was a faint smile on his lips and the fire seemed to reflect a light of playfulness in his eyes.

"I," John clumsily replied. "I just wanted to check that you weren't feeling the cold too harshly." Sherlock, to John's surprise, rose from his place and squeezed himself onto John's log, pressing his shoulders to John’s. His heart pounded in his ears and he could feel Sherlock's warmth - against his trunk, against his leg. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John - you, er, know my feelings about the Work…” yes, John knew. It came before everything else in Sherlock's life, including, John was convinced, the blessings of Dibella.

"...but you are more a part of me and my Work than I ever imagined anyone could be,” Sherlock continued. “I have grown very fond of you," he said, and at this last, he slid his hand over and up John's thigh. John gave an inarticulate groan as he adjusted to the sensation of Sherlock stroking and petting his groin, and in turn he ran his hand over Sherlock’s cheek, pausing with a thumb at the corner of that lush mouth. John summoned his remaining wits to reply to Sherlock, and tried not to let his voice shake.

"And I...I...for myself, I can't imagine my life without you, Sherlock," John managed, "I lo-"

Before he could finish, Sherlock surged forward to capture John's lips with his, and John finally felt them, soft, warm, and his mouth tingled with the gentle push of them. The sensation spread down from John’s ears and his chest flushed. John loved kissing, and he subtly pressed pecks to Sherlock’s lower lip, corner lips and upper lip, over and over, until Sherlock let out a low, pleading noise, and as his mouth opened he stroked over John’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, beseechingly. John smiled and dipped into that greedy mouth, and their breathing grew shallower as they deepened the kiss and tongues began rubbing, then thrusting.

John fumbled around until found an opening in Sherlock’s blanket and rubbed a finger across one of Sherlock’s peaked nipples; he arched backward, begging silently for more of John’s touch. As John mirrored the motion of his tongue with the rubbing of his fingertip over Sherlock’s sensitive tissue, he grew hard as stone at the soft and lovely "hfff" noises he wrung from Sherlock.

Sherlock wriggled away from John and pressed his shoulders back. John thought that Sherlock had never looked more beautiful than he did now, his hair tousled from John’s touch and the vapour of his breath dispelling into the dark air. With the light from the fire, John just thought he could make out a flush on Sherlock’s cheeks and, possessively, John was immensely proud that those full lips shone with his saliva.

The object of his desire had drawn away to reach into a bag at his feet. Sherlock shot a filthy grin John's way and, with a wink, produced a leather wrapped vial with a stopper. John's brow went down in confusion when Sherlock held it triumphantly aloft.

"It's to use on me, John," Sherlock calmly explained. "You've been with other men before, surely you've..." he trailed off, catching sight of John's open mouth.

John was convinced that at that moment he was about to die of lust and that even Dibella herself wouldn't allow him into her sanctuary due to the extent of his desire. A panoply of lewd images played through his mind: Sherlock on his back or on his front, squirming with John's fingers in him, Sherlock speared by John who gripped his hips, John taken roughly by Sherlock from-

"I can see that your experience didn't really include a...broader range of activities," Sherlock stated with a slightly higher inflection at the end, making it into a question.

Startled from his salacious imaginings, John rasped out,

"Efficiency was more the standard, I'm afraid." He rubbed his palms together and licked his lips, now more than a bit sensitive from the mission of courting Sherlock's mouth. "What exactly is in it?" John said, gesturing to the container.

Sherlock smiled gently back at him. "It's my own compound of Pitcher Plant extract and crushed Dragon's Tongue.* When I studied at the Mage's College, a former colleague and I came across the...unique properties of this plant together. We’re no longer in contact, but when I traveled to the east of Cyrodiil last year, I collected fresh samples. The Dragon's Tongue balances with the oil, making it somewhat easier to slough off in water." Sherlock set the vial down on a plank-like log and John idly wondered if he had rolled it there earlier with intent.

John tugged Sherlock close to him and pressed a series of soft kisses to his lips with a closed mouth. John swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

"I...by the Divines, Sherlock, I want this so much, as long as you do. Just...oh, gods, I just have to touch you first," and John placed his hand directly between Sherlock’s legs. John was thrilled to discover him firm and strong beneath the blanket and his heat was enticing. Sherlock moaned at his touch but pulled away from John to splay on his own bedroll, quickly covering himself with a thick, fleecy coverlet, woven from sheep raised on the mountains of High Rock.

Sherlock gazed up at John, dark-eyed and disheveled, and John felt his heart skip a beat when Sherlock opened the blanket wide for him.

"Come here now," Sherlock commanded. "And bring the bottle."

John nearly leapt down on him and they pressed forward against each other, gloriously naked at last, tangling their bare legs. Sherlock gripped John’s backside, pulling him close and kneading the muscles; when John rolled his hips forward, he felt Sherlock's naked erection press against his own and he let out a harsh gasp. Sherlock was fully hard and he pulsed against John. They clutched one another, panting, and just as John tried not to let his heart beat out of his chest, he felt a small amount of fluid - his own or Sherlock's, he didn't know - smear on his shaft.

"Gods, you feel...you feel amazing" John muttered, and he couldn't resist wrapping his hand around Sherlock's prick. While he didn't have the experience of every act one man could do with another man, this was something John knew how to do quite well. In response, Sherlock inhaled sharply and his whole body jerked against John’s as if he had been shocked. Sherlock began thrusting up immediately into the snug circle that John had made for him and he marveled at the sensation of Sherlock's length hot inside his palm. Soft, velvety skin slid up and over the head as John stroked him and Sherlock dug fingers into John's back and nipped at his good shoulder. But as John quickened the pace of his frigging, Sherlock’s mouth trembled, his grip on John slackened and his only remaining movement was the rocking of his hips. Encouragingly, John gasped out, "Yes, that's it, in my hand!"

He met each of Sherlock's advances with luxurious downward pulls and when he involuntarily jerked his own lower torso up he felt himself grazing over Sherlock's thigh, moist with their exertions, humid with their want. John knew he could come just like this, grinding against his beloved friend and his own hand, but before he began chasing his pleasure any further, Sherlock stilled and stuttered, "n-no, I...it’s good, very good, but tonight I want you in me."

John buried his head against Sherlock's neck and kept his hand around his friend, huffing out rapid breaths. Sherlock moved heavy limbs to link around John's back and he muttered, "anything...anything you want. I'm yours."

He let his lips rest upon Sherlock's pulse point before slowly releasing him and making his way down to the base of his throat; Sherlock let out a low, broken noise and John rolled him onto his back, pressing kisses to his chest. Wrapped this closely together, John had difficulty distinguishing Sherlock's scent from his own amongst the familiar smells of leather, clean sweat and lust, but John thought he could just detect the faint odor of bergamot, likely from Sherlock's hair, and he breathed in as deeply as possible. John slid his hands down the nearly hairless abdomen to circle the pads of his fingers over jutting hipbones, smooth knobs that he massaged, and finally, he dipped his thumbs down and inward to skim against rough curls.

"Yes, yes..." John murmured as he caressed the form below him. There was nothing else in John's mind, in Tamriel, in Mundus, save for that 'yes,' that resounding affirmation. "Beautiful, you are..." John whispered to him.

With almost every sweep of John's fingers over Sherlock's skin, the man sighed and stretched his neck backwards. And as John ran his hands up to the apex of Sherlock's thighs, he let out a growl and the urgency of the situation fully gripped them both.

"John, please," Sherlock urged, and spread his thighs further apart. John was rendered speechless by the need in Sherlock's voice, by the sight of this indomitable man making himself so totally vulnerable.

With fumbling hands, John groped for the phial Sherlock had thoughtfully put aside for them on the ground. John unstoppered it and experimentally poured a bit into his palm; the liquid gathered into a puddle and when he dipped a forefinger into it, it spread gently in a glistening slick. John couldn't help raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"Ingenious. You will never fail to amaze me."

Sherlock smiled coyly up at him, one arm tucked behind his head. "And I would say the same of you, John Watson,” he replied in a satisfied tone. “You are a study in contrasts, unique, the only one in the world. Before you ever asked, I knew you would be my companion. Stay with me, John, be with me, always."

John swallowed down the lump rising harshly in his throat.

"I'll follow you in this world and beyond, Sherlock. Through the planes of Oblivion, or the Dreamsleeve, or even Sovngarde, I'll follow you."ª

Sherlock gripped John's dry hand and when John squeezed it back, Sherlock seized the opportunity to try and pull John toward him. John evaded him with a low chuckle and used the mixture to thoroughly coat his fingers, while Sherlock adjusted the bedding by propping up a folded blanket beneath him before reassuming his prone state. He stared up at John with a soft, dreamy expression, and though he was completely covered, his arousal jutted up, tenting the cloth in a distinct and unsubtle way. John slid back in with Sherlock; he hovered over him and courted his mouth languidly with his lips and tongue, running his fingers through soft, dark ringlets as Sherlock rutted himself against John's hip. With a lingering kiss, John backed away from him to shift his focus lower, unhurriedly sliding his fingers down and further down to rub a circle around Sherlock's entrance with two fingers.

"Tell me?" John implored. "I want to make this good for you."

"Obviously," he said, and John snorted at his impertinence, thoroughly amused at the seamless blending of Sherlock’s haughtiness and sensuality. John looked into his eyes, not daring to blink as he nudged the soft, twitching indention with the pad of his middle finger.

"Now, like that," Sherlock gasped out, and John pressed inward, feeling his own face flame and his toes curl in anticipation when he felt that tightness flex around him. As John opened Sherlock up further, he became more candid, explaining exactly _where_ to touch, _how_ to pleasure him thoroughly. Sherlock responded with quiet moans and began writhing in a delicious way, gripping and twisting the bedding underneath them with his fists as John followed his breathy directions. His resultant cries of fulfillment acted as a constant temptation, and when John pushed into Sherlock with a third finger, he ducked his head under the blanket and guided himself to suckle at his tip.

"Ngh!" Sherlock moaned, "gods, John!"

"Good?" John inquired in a muffled voice and, without waiting for an answer, curled his fingers gently upwards again, following one of Sherlock's earlier directives. Sherlock petted his hair erratically and let out a series of incomprehensible murmurs as John fellated him. John fluttered his tongue over the flatness beneath his crown and used the tip of his tongue to gather beads of fluid, clear evidence of Sherlock’s eagerness. When John began using suction in earnest and ran his tongue up and down the shaft, Sherlock’s muscles relaxed even further around John’s fingers and he restlessly shifted his legs.

"Yes, John, now?" It wasn't said in a pleading tone, but there there was a thinly-veiled ache in his voice that John hadn’t heard before, and he itched to soothe that longing.

John slowly withdrew his fingers from Sherlock and reached for the vial once more, pouring out another measure for himself, and he wriggled back in to coat Sherlock’s prick, reveling in the quiet moan of relief that the gesture elicited.

There was no more talk, and they gazed at one another before pressing their foreheads together. John didn't want to blink, didn't want to miss a single second of this. Sherlock pulled his legs almost up to his chest and John looked into his eyes again as he lined himself up, and as he made his first inward push. John let out a deep groan when he first breached him and Sherlock made a soft “unh” noise, and bucked, trying to take John in the rest of the way. But John was determined not to hurry him and gentled his way in, inch by inch, though Sherlock let out impatient grunts and scratched at John's shoulder blades. Finally, John had sunk completely into him and he lingered there motionless, feeling Sherlock's tight muscles admit and adjust to him.

"Alright?" John panted. And while John wanted to confirm that his lover was comfortable, he also needed more than a moment to gather his wits. Sherlock was so _hot_ inside, and the squeeze felt exquisite, it was intense beyond imagining...

"Yes. John, ah...John, you can move…”

"Like this?" John asked, canting his pelvis slightly upward at the same time he thrust in. He wanted to see if he could come close to reproducing the sensation that had so pleased Sherlock earlier.

"Ab. so. lutely," Sherlock moaned deeply, drawing out and nearly slurring each syllable. “Feels...magnificent.”

John was good at following orders, and Sherlock was so responsive to his movements that John felt caught in an ever-tightening ring of pleasure. John slowly drove into Sherlock and each pull backward was superb, a delicious drag, as if warm honey were flowing through his veins. When Sherlock pulled an arm from John’s neck to reach down and touch himself, John was so aroused that he had to silently recite the names of ancient forts in Cyrodiil. _Fort Blueblood, Fort Bulwark, Fort Caractacus_ …John thought with determination as strong knuckles rubbed rhythmically against his belly.

But when Sherlock began letting out a steady stream of cries and gasps, John reacted like a spurred horse, driving in faster and harder. Sherlock clutched the hair at the base of John’s neck and wrapped his legs around him, drawing John in further, tipping him toward delirium. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, licking aimlessly along and inside his mouth, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as Sherlock cried his name. John pumped and rolled his hips up and he was close, so very close...but he wanted to follow after Sherlock, wanted Sherlock to go first. Gods, but John loved him, loved him so much that he wished for the first time he could Shout, wished that he could use the Voice if only to scream Sherlock's name to the heights of The Throat of the World, to the ends of Nirn.

Propping himself up on one elbow, John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and they both worked him together. John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers more tightly as they rose up and loosened them on the downstroke, and each of John’s thrusts sped their mutual pulling. His friend began clenching around him, rhythmically.

"Gods, love," John moaned, "I feel you, I _feel_ you!"

"Yes! Yes, John, _John_!"

John's head snapped up, he had to imprint the vision of his friend's climax into his heart, burn it into his soul, and just before Sherlock opened his eyes, John thought he glimpsed a golden light glow from underneath his lids. But that notion - which would return to an aging John on cold winter nights when he was curled around Sherlock's sleeping form - was immediately obliterated by the hot whiteness that seized John's body, and he cried out in ecstasy, not caring if any man, dragon or god heard him. He slumped forward and pressed his head onto his friend's chest. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his back and pulled the blanket tight around them. They were both panting and, in spite of the night's coolness, covered in perspiration.

John pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek and withdrew from him slowly; he felt vaguely assured of the rightness of his action when Sherlock's muscles pressed him out the rest of the way. He grazed a thumb along Sherlock’s cheek before turning away to fumble for his discarded blanket. Sherlock smiled lazily as John attended to the slickness on his belly and chest, and he spread his legs again with a contented sigh when John gently indicated that he wanted to dry where he had been.

As soon as John tossed the blanket from their bedroll, Sherlock grabbed him. He wrapped his arms around John and John tucked his head beneath Sherlock’s chin. Long fingers twined themselves through John's sweat-dampened hair and Sherlock floated the lightest of kisses over his forehead.

John rasped out, "I want to hold you all night, my own. Do you think it's safe?"

With a low laugh, Sherlock replied, "There's a strong frost trap I set up to waylay anything on two or four legs. And if there's a dragon, well...they're hardly stealthy. We can take down another dragon, don't you think, my dearest John?"

"There are times, Sherlock, that I feel I could do anything with you."

* * *

**Afterword**

by Archivist Jo’Bhishnubi

The Greybeards indeed confirmed that Sherlock was Dragonborn; however, as many folk already know, Sherlock and John faced a most formidable and deadly foe before putting an end to Alduin the World-Eater.

The events surrounding Miraakarty’s defeat in Solstheim are detailed in Watson’s “The Return of Sherlock of High Rock.” There are several other volumes written by Watson, and surprisingly, a growing number of extra-canonical works about Tamriel’s only Consulting Discerner and his healer.

There is no record of how Ioxannes Watson and Sherlock finally ended their days. One likes to imagine that they remained together until the end after spending many peaceful years at their home in Braidbread Row.

There is a rumor, though, that on the 18th day of Last Seed, 4E295, a member of a Khajiiti caravan said he spotted two men, a tall Breton and a short Nord, both great in years, heading south from Bruma on the road to White-Gold City.

It is highly likely that this caravanner invented the story for popular appeal, as both Watson and Sherlock would have long surpassed their natural lifespans. However, this alleged sighting occurred in the same year that Emperor Antonus Mede, grandson of Titus Mede II, was accused of having the Dark Brotherhood assassinate his wife, Camia Stormthar of the Thalmor.

This situation was never resolved in a manner that satisfied either faction, and it is said that Antonus Mede's second marriage to Queen Anora Sendu of Hammerfell was one of the prime factors in the Reuinification of the Empire.

Fanciful though it may be, it is not difficult to imagine that the assassination of an Empress would be an irresistible mystery for Sherlock and John.

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**_ footnotes _ **

*Dragon’s Tongue is a gold-flowered plant with a variety of uses in potion-making. The Pitcher Plant showed up in Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion in eastern Cyrodiil, and I couldn’t harvest that damned thing no matter how hard I tried. It turned out that the plant was an accidental inclusion in the game and it had no purpose. I have given it one here.

ªThe Dreamsleeve and Sovngarde are mysterious realms in Aetherius, the source of magicka. Many cultures believe that souls go on to Aetherius after death. The Dreamsleeve is occupied by souls in transition, and Bretons believe this is where they remain permanently after death. Many Nords, however, believe that Sovngarde is the final resting place for the deserving, who pass there from the Dreamsleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes Beyond Tundras Bitter and Dragonfire's Brand - thank you so much for reading! I've really enjoyed playing in this AU; I might return to it one day, if the Greybeards summon me. Happy gaming!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always welcome.


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